


The End Days: Schism

by DetectiveRoboRyan



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Abuse, Active, Actually fuck it, Alcoholism, Also Actual Suicide, Alternate Universe- Started Off as Canon Compliant and then Wasn't, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Comedy, Could be Nanowrimo but probably not, Dead Parents, Drama, Family, Friendship, Growing Up, Harm to Minors, Humor, I SWEAR I'LL GET BACK TO THIS, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Long ass fic, Multi, Not so Dark in Other Places, Plot-Driven, Pre-Canon, Romance, Second Draft, Self-Discovery, Theology, Worldbuilding, Written for NaNoWriMo, also post-canon, basically a novel, character-driven, gets dark in places, themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 13:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 83,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8015020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/pseuds/DetectiveRoboRyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in four interconnected "acts," Schism follows Lucina and her Shepherds as they grow up in a world turning and changing at a rapid pace, more dangerous than the one their parents worked hard to keep safe. For a time, they're still only children-- growing up, living, loving despite the fact that their world is ending quicker than they think and they'll have to grow up sooner than is fair for anyone. The remaining adults of the Shepherds may do what they can to try and protect them, but they can only do so for so long.</p><p>Ship index:<br/>-Chrobin in chapter 11 and posthumous throughout, will be a bigger part of the focus in act 4.<br/>-Philemm starting chapter 24 and through chapter 30, and in act 4. Higher focus in book 1.<br/>-Lucina/OC throughout, starts in chapter 15.<br/>-M!Morgan/Nah is canceled, apologies. Cynthia/Nah is in the fic instead but will most likely not really happen until lategame.<br/>-Kjelle/Severa planned for chapter 24 onwards.<br/>-Gerome/Laurent planned for chapter 24 onwards.<br/>-Lissabelle in chapter 17 and sprinkled throughout, though the actual buildup of the relationship doesn't happen until postgame when they're both 20+.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Foreseer

**Author's Note:**

> ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ second draft here we go
> 
> cover art is mine, i drew it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lissa should be authoritative, but she's never been any good at that, and Lucina's anger is justified, if misdirected. But then again, at what should she direct it? Perhaps it's not Lissa's fault that Chrom is dead and Robin is missing, but whose fault is it? Fate? Lucina can't resist fate, no matter how hard she tries._
> 
> The beginning of the end is quieter than originally thought.

* * *

 

Lissa is twenty-nine years old when the world ends on the twelfth of Juno, 1430, and thinking back on it, it's kind of underwhelming.  
  
Usually when one thinks of the end of the world, there are explosions and screaming and doomsayers on every corner multiplying in revelry for the fact that for once they were right. And that's coming, but when Lissa's brother dies, betrayed by his most trusted friend, everything goes quiet. And it stays quiet until after she's handed Lucina, who is twelve and both too old to be a girl and too young to be a woman, her father's sword.  
  
She takes it, confused for a minute, and then breaks Lissa's silence with, "But father _can't_ die."  
  
Sound comes rushing back all at once. Lissa doesn't want to talk or think about it, she wants to throw herself back into her work like she always does and then curl up in her favorite chair with her book and her brandy and shut out the world when her work is done. She wants nothing more than to pretend, for one more stupid day, that her brother and sister are alive and she doesn't have to step up to the plate and be the Exalt. She hates leading. It terrifies her.  
  
"He did," she says.  
  
"But he can't," Lucina retorts. "Mama's strategies— they worked, didn't they? They always do, she's a genius."  
  
"Mama's a genius," Marcus echoes, wringing his little hands anxiously like Robin always did. "She saved the day."  
  
"Some problems, even your mama can't solve," Lissa says, crouching to Marcus's level. Owain has his face buried in her dress, clinging like he's never going to let her go again. She doesn't blame him.  
  
Marcus shakes his head. "No, you're wrong," he says. He looks up at Lucina.  
  
"Was he betrayed?" Lucina demands. "What happened?"  
  
Lissa doesn't want to tell her— but she has to. "Your father was murdered," Lissa tells her. "And your mother never saw it coming."  
  
She's not going to say that Robin was the murderer. What sort of thing is that to tell your niece and nephew, that one parent stabbed the other in cold blood? They're old enough to know what dead means, but that doesn't mean they're old enough to handle this sort of brutal event. Lissa can only pray they never find out.  
  
(Whomever recieves the prayer has a twisted sense of humor— perhaps this Lissa is lucky she never knows what the children of the Garrison go through.)  
  
Lucina looks around at the convoy of the Shepherds with their dented armor and leaning banners, all still reeling from the loss. The lines on Frederick's face are deeper with his scowl, and though his hands twitch like he's eager to get them back on his lance, it seems listless.  
  
"Where's mother?" she asks.  
  
Marcus looks around. "Lift me up, maybe she's behind someone," he suggests.  
  
"No way, every time you do that, I fall," Lucina scowls. "She has to be somewhere, right, aunt Lissa?"  
  
Lissa shakes her head. "We don't know."  
  
That seems to hit harder than the news that their father is dead and his body is in a box on the way back to the capitol. Marcus tears up, and Lucina clenches Falchion tightly.  
  
"Where is she?" Lucina demands. "Is _she_ dead, too? Did she get murdered?"  
  
Lissa should be authoritative, but she's never been any good at that, and Lucina's anger is justified, if misdirected. But then again, at what should she direct it? Perhaps it's not Lissa's fault that Chrom is dead and Robin is missing, but whose fault is it? Fate? Lucina can't resist fate, no matter how hard she tries.  
  
"She disappeared," Lissa tells her. "We don't know where." An angry, vindictive part of Lissa hopes she has the good sense not to come back— maybe there were other circumstances, but Lissa knows what she saw, and she saw Robin send a thunderbolt through her brother's chest. Word will undoubtedly get out, if only as rumor, that it was Robin's doing, and what had been grudging admittance in the castle will turn to outright scorn. Everything she faced when she first set foot in Ylisse will be back and multiplied tenfold, whispers about traitors and spies and liars, conniving Plegian snakes trying to get back at Ylisse for a twenty-year war that never really ended. Before the battle, Lissa wouldn't have believed any of that for a second— but here and now, she's not sure what to believe.  
  
Marcus buries his face in his hands, shoulders trembling. Lucina sets her mouth in a hard, firm line. She doesn't want to accept this reality— Lissa knows the feeling. She wants to fight it like her father's death is one of the straw-filled training dummies in the practice yard. She wants to take Falchion out of its sheath and hack reality to pieces even though she's not strong enough to weild the blade to its fullest potential.  
  
Lucina leaves. Lissa pulls Marcus to her, holds him close, and watches Ylisse's young princess go try to fight reality.

* * *

  
  
Falchion is heavy in Lucina's hands. It's a greatsword with a grip as long as Lucina's forearm alone, and the blade itself is nearly as long as Marcus is tall. Despite it being ancient and unbreakable and all, it's still a sword made of metal and leather, and swords, even to an exceptionally strong twelve-year-old, are heavy.  
  
So she's leaned the sword against the fence and taken to fighting General Rhydderch's daughter Kjelle, who is ten and shorter than Lucina, but strong and bulky enough to stand against Lucina's wiry toughness. They fight barehanded, a mix between a fistfight between teenagers over who gets the last slice of pie and the way Lucina's fists land on the dummies when she's done with swords for the afternoon. Lissa watches it all through the open window in the infirmary study, as she's supposed to be checking over the medical reports from the clerics at Castle Ylisse. (But that's boring, and she's the Exalt now, so who's gonna make her?)  
  
Lissa flips through reports idly. It's all the same thing now, since most people have relocated to the Garrison. In wartime, it's become a fortress sheltering not only the Shepherds, but their children, and a large number of the citizens of Ylisstol. Only a bare-bones minimum of personel still remain at the castle— guards and medics and the people who do the tasks required for life. And there are still farmers out in their fields and orchards, sending goods to the Garrison and the castle. That can't last forever; they may need to expand the gardens at the Garrison in order to support the population living there. It feels as if she's preparing for a siege.  
  
Irritably, she shoves the reports off the desk and pulls out a journal. Lissa has never been much of a journal-er, but it was her sister's once, and if anyone may know what to do, it's Emmeryn. Not that she's ever had to make the city last through a siege…  
  
Flipping through entries holds no hints. Emmeryn may be old before her time, but it's not like she can see into the future. Nobody can see the future.  
  
Lissa sighs. She looks out the window again, where Lucina and Kjelle have taken a water break. Perhaps this is one problem she has to solve on her own.  
  
Lucina, simultaneously, feels angry and troubled. Which isn't surprising, given that she's twelve and twelve is the age everyone says you're too young to do anything about the information you're old enough to know. She knows what it means when someone dies, where exactly babies come from, and why her aunt drinks. She's unfortunately too young to know that punching her problems isn't the way to solve them.  
  
"I heard about your dad," Kjelle says, her usually-loud voice quieter.  
  
Lucina says nothing. Kjelle shifts awkwardly, twisting the hem of her loose-fitting shirt. It's too big for her, as most of her clothing is, but it's all hand-me-down from someone else. The people of the Garrison pool whatever resources they have.  
  
"Do you want to…" Kjelle shifts again. "Like, talk about it? Or…"  
  
"I want to find his murderer," Lucina says. "He was murdered, Kjelle. But aunt Lissa won't tell me who did it."  
  
"Do you think Severa knows?" Kjelle asks. "She knows lots of things."  
  
"Not unless she was at the battle," Lucina shakes her head. "Aunt Lissa knows. But she won't tell me."  
  
"So…" Kjelle fidgets. "Who else was there? Sir Frederick?"  
  
"Nobody is going to tell me," Lucina says, clenching her fists. "I have to find out myself. But… I have a guess. It's horrible, though."  
  
"Who is it?" Kjelle asks.  
  
Lucina goes quiet, looking at her dirt-scuffed shoes. She feels guilty for even thinking it— but her visions have never lied before. She sees something happen hours, minutes before it does, and it always comes true.  
  
"About a week ago, I had… a vision," Lucina says, avoiding eye contact. "You know, how I get those?"  
  
"Like when you told Frederick about the bear attack, and then it happened an hour later?" Kjelle asks.  
  
"Yeah," Lucina nods. "And it was… dad dying. Stabbed right through the chest with a bolt of lightning. And he said _this is not your fault_ to the murderer. That sounds like him."  
  
"Who was the murderer?" Kjelle asks, leaning towards her in interest. Kjelle is ten and has never heard about murder outside of the sappy crime-romance serial novels Severa's aunt Sumia reads. She's fascinated by the idea, even though it's the real thing this time, and happened to her best friend's dad. But it hasn't been long enough for it to feel real to either of them.  
  
Lucina swallows. "Don't tell anyone," she says. "Cross your heart."  
  
Kjelle crosses it. "Cross my heart."  
  
And Lucina takes a breath. "I think it was my mother."  
  
That hits like an avalanche. Kjelle's eyes widen. "Wait, Lucina…"  
  
"I _know_ it's horrible!" Lucina takes a shaky breath, knuckles white. "How could I even think this? But I saw it, Kjelle. I _saw_ it happen. Maybe there are other circumstances I don't know, but— but—" She lowers her head, heel of her hand to her forehead, clenching her messy bangs in her fist so hard it hurts. "I saw it. I know what I saw."  
  
"But that's—" Kjelle stops herself. "Why?"  
  
"I don't know," Lucina admits. "But if she comes back here, I'll— well. I'll ask. Maybe it was a mistake. I can hope."  
  
Kjelle takes a moment to process this. It's deeper stuff than she's used to. She's not sure how to respond— how does one even respond when their best friend confesses that she had a vision of the future where her mother killed her father?  
  
"Wanna go another round?" she offers. "You can punch me as hard as you want until you feel better." That's always helped for Kjelle, at least. She doesn't know if Lucina is quite the same way.  
  
Lucina's about to take her up on that offer, because even if punching out her anger doesn't always work, it makes her feel better in the moment, but she feels something before she can open her mouth. Like someone dropped an ice cube down the back of her shirt, and the cold feeling is spreading down her spine. She shivers.  
  
"I have to talk to my aunt," she says, abruptly standing up. She looks directly into the infirmary office window, where Lissa is sitting at her desk. She watches Lissa look up, her eyes widen in surprise. "We'll go again later."  
  
She sprints off. Kjelle watches her go, then kicks at a clod of dirt. "Aw. Darn."  
  
———  
  
Lucina sprints through the infirmary and slams open the door to Lissa's office without bothering to knock. "Aunt Lissa!"  
  
Lissa looks up. So does her guest. Lucina, breathing heavily from the sprint, looks between them.  
  
"Lucina," the guest says. And Lucina just shakes her head, staring her mother in the face.  
  
" _You_ ," she says, and it's cruel, and she sees the way Robin almost winces. But she doesn't care.  
  
Lissa clears her throat. "Lucina, don't be rude."  
  
Lucina ignores her, and steps forwards. " _You_ killed dad," she says, staring Robin down. "I knew it."  
  
The tension in the room thickens. Lucina is, at once, horrified and furious beyond belief. Her hands twitch around the hilt of a sword that isn't there. Lissa stands up and closes the window.  
  
Robin looks at her, and she's not angry— which only makes Lucina madder. Robin looks mournful, like she knew this was coming. Lucina's hands shake. It's as if Robin knew she was going to kill Chrom the whole time, and did nothing to stop it.  
  
Robin nods. "How did you know?"  
  
Lucina takes a shaky breath. "Like I'd tell _you_."  
  
Robin taps underneath her left eye. "You saw it, didn't you?"  
  
"Maybe." Lucina doesn't want to talk anymore. She wishes she hadn't left Falchion in the practice yard. "Saw you cut dad down in cold blood. Like some kind of _monster_."  
  
The betrayal twists like a knife. "Is that what you are? What you always were?" Lucina demands. "A monster, pretending to be a person? Were Marcus and I only— only _tools_ to make it seem like you weren't?"  
  
Robin's face falls, visibly hurt. "Lucina, gods, of course not!" she says. "I love you and your brother very much—"  
  
" _Liar!_ " Lucina shouts. Acting on impulse, she throws her fist in Robin's direction. Robin catches it in her hand like it's nothing. Lucina breathes heavily, chest shaking. She hangs her head. She kind of wants to cry.  
  
"What did you see?" Robin asks. "Lucina?"  
  
Lucina pulls her fist back. Her knuckles are white. She wants nothing more than to try again, try to punch her problems like she always does.  
  
"Lucina," Robin repeats. "What did you see?"  
  
And Lucina has to take a breath before she answers. "You killed dad," she whispers. "And the world ended, right there. Right then."  
  
The door creaks open. All heads turn to Marcus, standing in the doorway, clutching his right eye.  
  
"Mama?" he says, his voice small. "I think something bad happened to me."  
  
Robin crouches in front of him and smooths out his messy hair. She takes him gently by the shoulders, and asks, "What is it, Marcus?"  
  
Lucina watches as he takes a breath, lower lip trembling, and moves his hand away. She expects to see blood gushing from a cut, or something, but there's nothing there but big blue eyes, as normal as always.  
  
Wait.  
  
_No._  
  
There, twined around his pupil, is the six-eyed symbol of Grima.  
  
And that, Lucina thinks, is when the world really starts to end.


	2. Pretenders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I didn't forget," he says. "But this— this is bigger than just us."_
> 
> _"So?" Owain folds his arms._
> 
> _"So we can't fight the problem like we can fight one of our bad guys," Marcus explains._
> 
> Childhood has to end, but it's the job of the adults to make sure it doesn't until it's necessary.

Marcus is eight, but he likes to think he's a mature eight— even if he's not, not really, because he's spent most of his life playing heroes with his friends while running around a castle, and doesn't have much in the way of real-life experience. But he's eight, so nobody's asking him to.  
  
He and Owain have a secret code. It's not really secret, it's random Plegian characters Marcus picked out of his mother's books that are probably not the right letters anyway. They can't always talk and play face-to-face. That's where the messages come in.  
  
Marcus leaves a message in their secret hiding spot— the old maple in the courtyard, just under one of its roots.  
  
_Are you scared of me? —MG._  
  
He waits a day for a reply. He's surprised to see one.  
  
_You're not scary. CK agrees. —OG._  
  
So he scribbles a reply when he can.  
  
_Everyone else is. Should I wear an eyepatch so people don't have to look at my eye? —MG._  
  
_That's stupid. It's not your fault grownups are scared of symbols. —OG._  
  
_I just want mother to stop crying when she looks at me Symbols mean things, OG. That's how the world works. I guess mine means monster. —MG._  
  
_You're no monster. You're my rival. That won't change. —OG._  
  
_I don't think people like me anymore. Except you guys. —MG._  
  
_They're all dumb, because you're great. —OG._  
  
_What did I do, though? —MG._  
  
He checks for a reply when Owain is tucking the note in the spot. He's kneeling on the ground with a half-used Wind tome and his battered wooden sword, and he hasn't noticed Marcus behind the tree. A surprise to Marcus, Cynthia and Nah are with him. Cynthia is snapping her fingers repeatedly like she does when she's anxious, shuffling one bare foot in the dirt. Her twin-tails are full of twigs and leaves like she's been climbing trees again. Nah is looking around nervously, her scaly pointed ears low and flat against her head.  
  
"Do you think he'll find it?" Cynthia whispers, but she's seven and loud and terrible at whispering, so Marcus can hear it where he is.  
  
"He will," Owain promises. "He has to. I can't find him anywhere, but he's been responding to the rest of the notes."  
  
Nah's ears twitch. She sniffs the air, and looks directly at Marcus. "He's right here. Right over there."  
  
Owain and Cynthia stare where Nah is looking. Marcus shifts, fidgeting with the patched hem of his shirt, and waves. "Hey, guys."  
  
"Marcus!" Cynthia tackles him in a hug that sends them both to the ground. "I got so worried! You stopped being in places! It was like that time we pr'tended you got kidnapped by the dark magistrate, but real and a lot scarier."  
  
"Sorry for worrying you, Cynthia," Marcus says, cracking a smile for her.  
  
"Next time you disappear, let us know," she says solemnly, standing back up and pulling him up by the hands. "So we can organize a rescue mission."  
  
"You don't need to—" he tries to say, scratching the back of his head. He wasn't expecting a warm welcome.  
  
"Of course we do," Owain says, puffing out his chest. "We're blood brothers, sworn to guard one another by a sacred oath! Though we may be rivals, destined to clash, we still look out for each other. And you remember the oath, don't you? We swore on my mother's axe. You can't have forgotten that."  
  
Marcus does remember. And then they'd spit in their hands and shaken on it, as small children do. They'd been five or six, and Owain was completely taken with the stories his mother told of the battles and the people in them— she hadn't made it sound glorious, but for him, all the stories had a happy ending. He loved the idea of knights and heroes, and quests for justice or friendship. The action of battle itself, of course, was also thrilling. And they were at the age where anyone who said it was stupid was just brainwashed by the evils of the world, no longer wise to how things truly worked like the Justice Cabal.  
  
Lucina had always been fond of the masked hero variety of stories— she'd played with them before, usually as the wise elder or sometimes the corrupt villain-king. But she loved reading her favorites to Marcus, and they were all about men and women who, scorned by society for one reason or another, donned a mask and a new identity to do what's right. Marcus preferred the ones with sorcery and cleverness, but the hero was undoubtedly a hero. Lucina's heroes tended to be more morally ambiguous.  
  
"I didn't forget," he says. "But this— this is bigger than just us."  
  
"So?" Owain folds his arms.  
  
"So we can't fight the problem like we can fight one of our bad guys," Marcus explains. "Look, you've seen what's going on— everyone's talking about how I'm cursed or something, and they're blaming mother for it even though I don't think it's her fault either, and I heard her and Lucina yelling about something yesterday and now neither of them will talk to each other and Lucina won't look at me, either, and—" He forces himself to take a shaky breath.  
  
"But you didn't do anything wrong!" Cynthia insists. "It's just them, being stupid!"  
  
"They're scared," Owain says. "And people do really bone-headed things when they're scared, but we know you haven't done anything. And that's what matters most."  
  
Marcus lowers his head. His teachers tell him that big boys don't cry but he doesn't feel like a big boy, he feels small and scared and alone and also like he has the best friends in the world that he must've done something great to deserve now.  
  
Owain hugs him. And Marcus thinks, wow, I really needed that.  
  
"So you guys really aren't scared of me, either?" Marcus asks, rubbing at one of his eyes with the heel of his little hand and finally looking up.  
  
"You're not that scary," Owain shrugs. "I mean, your sister has a symbol in her eye and I think she's way scarier than you."  
  
"Isn't that the whole point of your last name?" Cynthia wonders. "Is weird symbols somewhere on your body? Hero brands, or something?"  
  
"I got the wrong one, then, I guess," Marcus shrugs. "Maybe I really am destined to be the hero's rival."  
  
"It's not wrong, it's different," Owain insists. "Not the same thing. If it were wrong, you'd know."  
  
Marcus laughs, just a little. "I guess so."  
  
"I don't think it's wrong," Nah chimes in. "And it's not like you asked for it, right? So it's just the way things are. That's how it works."  
  
"Yeah!" Cynthia cheers. "Marcus is totally okay the way he is, and we get it, even if the grownups don't! Now let's play something, yeah? I'll get the slingshot!" Already excited, like a puppy with a wagging tail, she darts off.  
  
"Not the slingshot," Owain groans. "Cynthia, you're the only one that likes— and she's gone." He sighs, and jogs after her, leaving Marcus and Nah at the tree.  
  
"I'm glad you guys don't think I'm cursed or scary, Daisy," he says, looking at Nah. She's about the size of your average five-year-old, but her eyes are much older. She's wearing one of Lucina's old dresses that would've gone to the rag pile otherwise, and it's too big for her. One side of the neckline keeps falling off her shoulder. Her eyes sparkle a little when he calls her Daisy-- it's her secret name, they've decided, because everybody thinks Nah is her name even if she hates it. Daisy is special.  
  
"I never would," Nah promises. "You're kind of weird sometimes, but you're always nice to me and everyone, and I don't think you could ever be cursed by anything except smelling bad sometimes, and you don't smell bad, usually."  
  
"You don't smell bad, either," Marcus replies. "I like that. And you're definitely not cursed."  
  
"So if neither of us are cursed, then it's okay that we're still friends," Nah decides. "Good. I like being your friend. Even if you're weird, I like you."  
  
Marcus scoffs. "You're the one who's weird," he says. "You could've played the dragon!"  
  
"But you guys always make the dragon the villain," Nah protests. "I don't like being the villain. I'd be a lousy one anyway, since I don't have any cool powers."  
  
"Except turning into a _dragon_ ," Marcus rolls his eyes. "But sure, that's not cool at all. Bor-ing."  
  
Nah sticks her tongue out at him. It's long and pointed, and she can make it hiss like a snake if she tries. Marcus thinks it's extremely cool. He also thinks her scales are cool, and that she can eat metal, and that she can grow to be a ten-foot-long pink lizard. Her ears are pointed up and out, and the left one twitches happily when she laughs. She also has a really cute laugh.  
  
Marcus laughs, and prods her shoulder gently. At least, he thought it was gentle— when she yelps like that time he tugged on one of her braids because he wanted to see if it'd do anything (Lucina had smacked him upside the head and said it was rude to pull girls' hair), he pulled his hand back and looked at it, concerned.  
  
"Are you alright?" he asks. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"  
  
"That hurt," she says, furrowing her eyebrows. Her ears drop. "What was that?"  
  
"I thought it was gentle," Marcus fumbles. "Did it hurt too bad?"  
  
"It was like—" Nah holds her hands out, as if moving them will help the words come. "Like when you put your hand on a fire. Only not exactly?"  
  
Marcus frowns. "Like burning?"  
  
"Yeah," Nah says. "Weird. Are you sure you didn't use any magic?"  
  
"I didn't feel any?" Marcus is as perplexed as she is.  
  
"We should ask somebody," Nah suggests. "Let's find Lucina. She'll know what to do." Nah reaches for his hand to tug on it, ready to lead him off in the direction of his sister, but that hurts, too— like an instant of burning pain that fades when they jerk apart.  
  
Nah's face falls, ears drooping. She looks from her hand to Marcus. "What was that?"  
  
"I don't know?" Marcus says, but he has a hunch. Whatever is going on, he can't touch Nah without something hurting— like suddenly she's made of something that he's not allowed to feel, and it's scary. How are they going to hold hands now?  
  
Marcus takes a step back. Nah tries to follow, reaches out a hand for him, but Marcus shakes his head.  
  
"I have to go," he says. "I'm going to ask my mother about this, maybe— maybe she'll know something. I'm sorry, Daisy."  
  
"Marcus, wait—" she tries to say. But he's already gone.  
  
It's the last time the rest of the Justice Cabal speaks to Marcus.  
  
Robin, meanwhile, has nothing to do with her son's friendship drama at the moment. She's in her study, taking books off the shelf one at a time, looking at the cover, and putting them back. She has a stack of her favorites on her table. Her maps are folded up. Her dice and ink bottles and pencils and quills and sealing wax are put away. Her coat is over the back of the chair. There's a leather satchel out on the table. It's like she's packing.  
  
Marcus stands in the doorway, rubbing his eyes with his little fists. "Mama?" he ventures, swallowing hard and looking at where his mother stands.  
  
She turns. There are dark circles under her eyes. "What is it, Marcus?"  
  
"Something weird happened, just now," he says, lowering his head. "I'm scared. It's never happened before?"  
  
Sensing the urgency, Robin crouches to his level and sets her gentle hands on his shoulders. "What's wrong, baby? Are you hurt?"  
  
He shakes his head. "I was with Nah," he begins. He swallows again. "I tried to touch her hand. But I couldn't, because— it burned. Not bad, because it faded after a second, but— but it hurt her, too? And I don't know why it happened, all I know is it didn't happen before the mark in my eye showed up. Mama? What's happening to me?"  
  
Robin doesn't know how to respond to him. "You don't have to worry about that," she promises him. "We'll be leaving here soon."  
  
That puzzles him. "Where are we going? And why?"  
  
"We're going to find out what's happening," she promises. "Things are… changing. Some things have happened, and I don't think it's safe here for us anymore. So we're going to go away. But not forever, just until we know what's going on and how to control it." It's a bold-faced lie to her son, but she doesn't know what else to do.  
  
"When are we going?" Marcus asks. "Does Lucina know?"  
  
Oh gods, Lucina. "Lucina isn't coming, sweetie," Robin tells him. "She's… going to stay at the Garrison and protect auntie Lissa and your friends while we're gone."  
  
"Is this about what you were yelling about yesterday?" Marcus ventures. He figures it's connected somehow. "Lucina was real angry. She kept telling me she's going to revenge dad, but he's dead and can't get revenge anymore. And then she started hitting the training dummies until her hands were all bleeding."  
  
Robin purses her lips. "It has to do with that, yes." It's no use hiding the truth from him. He's a smart boy, and will figure it out anyway. Better he hears it from her before making his own guesses. "We've had a… disagreement. But it'll be alright."  
  
"Dad always says to talk out disagreements instead of running away," Marcus says. "Shouldn't you do that instead?"  
  
"We're going to," Robin promises. "After we get back. We're going to find out what's going on with your eye."  
  
Subconsciously, Marcus reaches up to touch his right eye. "What's wrong with it? What's wrong with me?"  
  
"Nothing, nothing at all," Robin says. "Your eye is a part of you, and that's how it's supposed to be. But strange things may happen because of it, so we're going to find out how to be prepared for this."  
  
Marcus nods. "Alright, mama."  
  
Robin pulls him close and kisses his head. "Things may be scary for a while now," she says. "But it'll all be alright, I promise. Mama's here, and everything will be alright."  
  
Marcus hangs on to those words. They're lies, but even amidst the chaos that comes, he can't pretend they weren't what he needed to hear when he needed it.


	3. Lies Hiding Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"When I was younger," Lucina begins, looking at her scabby knees, "I used to hear people talk about my mother, mostly, but Marcus and me sometimes. And they'd say really horrible, terrible things about Plegia and their spies, and how mother must've seduced poor Lord Chrom or something, or she's using him as a puppet, and how it's a plot by the High Priest to take over Ylisse in revenge for the war and for their king's death. They'd say me and Marcus were— were half-breeds, half-snake and half-person, as if we weren't supposed to exist. Some people even thought the Brand in my eye was faked."_
> 
> People are not vipers just because they like to hiss, but that doesn't mean they can't be venomous.

_Three hours,_ Lissa silently begs whatever gods do or don't exist. _Three measly little hours. That's all I need. Can I have three_ fucking _hours without something needing my attention?_  
  
But whatever gods that may or may not exist clearly hear this plea, every time, and then scoff and say, _no, how about 'go fuck yourself' instead?_ Lissa wants desperately to return the sentiment with a rude gesture to the sky, but no, someone wants her attention or input on _something_.  
  
All she wants is three hours to have a drink, put her feet up, maybe have a conversation with her wife that's not about business, maybe even take a nap if the heavens feel generous. But they never do, do they? Lissa is certain it's some sort of personal attack at this point. One long, consistent 'fuck you' by a petty diety she perhaps offended at some point, because if her mythology lessons had any truth to them, gods can be like that. _Whatever_.  
  
Delegates help, with the endless stream of mind-numbing tasks there are for her to do, but then there's an equally endless stream of other tasks that Urgently Require her Personal Attention, Right Now At This Fucking Moment. Somehow being the Exalt seemed like a lot less work when it was her sister's job. But Emmeryn had always hated talking about work— this was, in hindsight, probably why.  
  
And whatever the case may have been once upon a time, it has led to Lissa's current dilemma, of shuffling through a stack of reports while a horde of messengers from various people talk over one another, clamoring for her attention, all the while following her around the Garrison.  
  
"Your Grace, I've a letter from Themis on the state of—"  
  
"—The kitchens, and that they appear to be out of—"  
  
"—Lethal poisons, though the High Enchanter assures—"  
  
"—The recent excursion to the border yields no—"  
  
"—Word for you from the infirmary, the doctors are requesting—"  
  
"—Well-armed reinforcements to deal with the—"  
  
"—Minor nobility of Elmsgate—"  
  
"—Need signing on this—"  
  
"—It's very important, your Grace—"  
  
"—Very necessary—"  
  
"—Begging your pardon, your Grace—"  
  
"—Your Grace—"  
  
"—Your Grace—"  
  
"—Your—"  
  
Lissa slams the stack on her desk when she shoves open the door to her office (the poor wall, where the door handle meets it, has seen much abuse in the past two days), effectively shutting up the mass crammed in the doorway. She turns to them with a glare that she typically reserves for enemy clerics.  
  
She takes a deep breath. "For the love of all that is good in the world," she begins. "Shut. _UP_."  
  
Nobody says a word.  
  
Lissa runs a hand through her unruly bangs, already escaped from their proper place gathered in a bunch at the back of her head. "Everyone here," she begins. "You. What's your name."  
  
The scrawny young apprentice from the mage's tower silently points to herself. Lissa nods. "Wen, your Grace," she squeaks, lowering her eyes.  
  
"Wen," Lissa repeats. "Alright. Go back to High Enchanter Miriel, and tell her to _take a fucking number_ and submit a report to the box."  
  
Wen nods so quickly Lissa thinks her head will roll off. "Y-yes, your Grace. Right away." And she skitters off after bowing, twice for good measure.  
  
"That goes for the rest of you, too," she says to the rest of the group. "Send any and all questions, comments, complaints, and concerns to the box. It'll be addressed in due time."  
  
Silently, and without complaint, the group of messengers file out of the office. Lissa shuts the door, and rests her head against it. She could really use a drink right about now.

* * *

  
  
It's been three days since Lucina shouted at her mother. She still doesn't feel any better. Punching her problems didn't help, so she's gone to someone else— someone who, she's pretty sure, knows everything.  
  
It's not that Severa knows everything, but she's fond of sneaking around, and knows most of Ylisstol and the Pegasus Knight barracks. Once everybody moved to the Garrison, she wasted no time learning every inch of it, too. With all that sneaking around, it's no wonder she seems to know everything— for a price, at least.  
  
This one's free of charge, but Lucina has brought jellybeans anyway. They're on the slate-shingled roof over the outside corridor, and Severa is narrating the people she sees around the twig in her mouth.  
  
"Saw her accidentally light the Knight-Captain's church trousers on fire once, on laundry day," she says, nodding to an apprentice mage scurrying across the courtyard like her robes are on fire. "He still hasn't even noticed the burn, and he's worn them twice since."  
  
"What about him?" Lucina asks, pointing to a mustached cook in an apron carrying a basket of chickens through the yard.  
  
"Mm," Severa squints. "Oh, I know him! He used to work at a pastry shop in the city. He gave me bits of fried pastry dough if I told him something I'd learned. I never knew his name, though."  
  
"That's nice of him," Lucina remarks. "Did you sell secrets then, too?"  
  
"I don't sell secrets," Severa protests. "I trade information for a price. I'm not a secret-seller like what people think of, anyway. I don't know enough important secrets to do that. I just know stupid things."  
  
"They're not stupid," Lucina promises. "Knowledge of any kind is never stupid or useless. I think your secrets are just as important as the secret-seller secrets are."  
  
Severa sticks her tongue out. "You're just saying that."  
  
"No I'm not," Lucina insists.  
  
"Whatever," Severa brushes it off like it's nothing. She pulls a peppermint out of her shirt pocket and pops it in her mouth. After sucking on it for a second, Lucina hears her crunch it in half. "So how are you doing?"  
  
Something in her voice is softer, and Lucina knows why. She looks at the rustling trees in the courtyard. The central fountain in the Garrison isn't as ugly as the one in the castle, more functional than anything, but Lucina kind of misses it. She'd liked making fun of how stupid it looked with Laurent or Kjelle. If she asked, Severa could probably find a way to get them into the castle to make fun of the fountain and back before anyone missed them, but she's not going to ask.  
  
Lucina shrugs. "Fine, I guess. I don't know anymore."  
  
"I heard your aunt and your mom yelling the other day," Severa offers. "Well, your aunt was doing most of the yelling. Couldn't hear what it was about."  
  
"She _killed_ father," Lucina says. "I knew it. I saw it last week, in one of my… visions, or whatever they are. And then she confirmed it when I asked the other day. I was angry at first, but now? I don't know what to feel."  
  
Severa doesn't have a quip for that. She dangles her legs off the roof, crunching on her peppermint. "Maybe you're still angry, but you've gotten used to it," she suggests. "That happens."  
  
"Maybe, but I'm not sure," Lucina shrugs. "I keep thinking— what if this was the plan the whole time? What if mo— what if _Robin_ had planned the entire time to kill father, and Marcus and me were just leverage, or bargaining chips? What if— what if s-she didn't really love any of us at- at  all?" It's a harder thought to vocalize than she thought it would be. Her chin keeps shaking and no matter how much she tries, she can't make it stop. She stubbornly blinks her tears away, and rubs her eyes on her forearm.  
  
And Severa doesn't know how to respond to that, either. "Hey, it's alright," she says, scooting closer. "I mean— no, it's not, this is horrible, but— gods, who would even do that? Pretend to love someone, three someones, and then just throw it all away like they didn't feel anything at all?"  
  
"I don't know if I believe she would," Lucina realizes, taking a shaky breath. "That-that's not the mother I know. And— Severa, can you keep a secret?"  
  
Severa raises an eyebrow at the irony of the statement, but nods. "Cross my heart." She crosses it, to prove it.  
  
"When I was younger," Lucina begins, looking at her scabby knees, "I used to hear people talk about my mother, mostly, but Marcus and me sometimes. And they'd say really horrible, terrible things about Plegia and their spies, and how mother must've seduced poor Lord Chrom or something, or she's using him as a puppet, and how it's a plot by the High Priest to take over Ylisse in revenge for the war and for their king's death. They'd say me and Marcus were— were half-breeds, half-snake and half-person, as if we weren't supposed to exist. Some people even thought the Brand in my eye was faked."  
  
It's seriously heavy stuff she's saying. Severa looks away and listens, watching Knight-Captain Frederick and his son Teddy (short for Tederick, Severa thinks, and Teddy is either too ashamed to confirm it or too spineless to deny it) walk through the courtyard, talking about something or other while hauling a box full of old weapons.  
  
"It's not that I believe any of it!" Lucina continues. "Gods, definitely not, they're all hateful crackpots with their heads in their butts, but— some awful part of me thinks that maybe they're right? Maybe it was all a lie? And I don't know what's true or not anymore, and I'm—" Her voice breaks. She pulls her knees to her chest, trying hard not to let her shoulders shake and failing miserably. She can feel her face crumpling.  
  
"I'm sorry," she croaks. "I didn't m-mean to unload all of that on you."  
  
"No, no, it's alright," Severa promises. "What are friends for, right? And I mean, if you needed to say it, then that's okay, because— we're friends, right? And that's what friends do? And— and— yeah. It's okay."  
  
"Everything keeps… _happening_ ," Lucina sums up, resting her forehead on her knees. "And no matter how many times I tell it to stop, it doesn't. And I just know, in my gut, that it's never going to stop."  
  
"I think that's the way things happen," Severa leans over and gives her a hug, despite that being a good bit shorter makes her hug a half-hug and sort of awkward on her short arms. "Everything happens loudly and often and too much."  
  
"Did Cynthia say that?" Lucina asks. She's grateful for the hug nonetheless.  
  
Severa shrugs. "I asked what the Hell was wrong with her, and that's what she said. I think I understand a little better now."  
  
"Well, it sounds about right." Lucina rubs her eyes, and wipes her nose on the collar of her shirt. "I think I'd rather fight Risen with the soldiers."  
  
"If you do," Severa says. "Make sure to come back, alright? Not that I'm worried you won't, I mean, you're _you_ and you do really cool things, that's just who you are— as a fact, not for any other reason, but— _gah!_ " She shakes her head, forcing herself to stop. "Just don't do anything stupid, okay?"  
  
"Alright," Lucina promises. "But if I do, because I know it'll happen, I'll have to make sure you're there."  
  
"What, so I can tell you to your face how much of a bonehead you are?" Severa scoffs.  
  
"No," Lucina admits. "Because I like having you around, Severa."  
  
You can't just say that to people, Severa wants to scream. But instead she blushes, deep and red and all the way to her ears, and says, "Y-yeah, whatever. Bonehead."  
  
Lucina laughs, despite her puffy eyes and runny nose. "I can live with that. Thanks, Severa."  
  
Severa smiles, just a tiny bit. "Anytime."

* * *

  
  
_Stories of Old Altea._  
  
_The Art of War._  
  
_Making the Most of Your Army: A Comprehensive Guide._  
  
_Tactics and the Art of Not Dying._  
  
_Eyes of Jupiter and Other Poems: An Anthology._  
  
_Red Dawns of Aeon._  
  
_Temptation of the West Winds._  
  
Seven books was probably all she could carry, Robin figures, so into the satchel they go. Then her journal, her roster, her logbook, her sketchbook. Her stationary, quills, pencils, ink, and wax. Her dice, despite that she may not need them. Her maps. Her backup Arcfire tome and a basic Fire one just in case. Her _Trader's Guide to Modern Common-tongue_ sits on the shelf, and not in the stack of things to go in the bag— it's symbolic, sort of, but it's mostly that she doesn't need it anymore.  
  
Her daggers. She'll need those. Maybe she ought to take a bow, just in case— she's not sure if she'll be hunting, but perhaps it's better safe than sorry. Though stopping by the armory to pick up a bow and quiver will attract undue attention…  
  
Robin frowns at the collection of items on the table. Packing is hard, especially if one plans to be away for an indeterminate amount of time, perhaps forever. Will two novels be enough? And she can't bear to leave behind her strategy books— Marcus loves reading them so. Perhaps she should pack a book for him, as well, or something else.  
  
It's then Lissa comes to the door. She knocks twice before opening it and holding out an opened letter. "Why did you write me a letter?"  
  
Robin breathes. "You said you didn't want to hear whatever it was I had to say, so I wrote it down in case you did, eventually."  
  
"What do you mean you're just leaving?" Lissa demands. "Just like that, after what— three days?"  
  
"I had to return to wrap things up," Robin says evenly. She puts the books, the stationary, the tomes, the maps in the satchel. "I was the tactician. I can't leave things unresolved. After I finish up here, Marcus and I are leaving."  
  
"Marcus?" Lissa seems caught off-guard by that. "You're taking Marcus with you?"  
  
"You saw the Mark in his eye," Robin finally looks her in the eye. "Grima's magic is already manifesting. People here are going to give him Hell for it. I can't just leave him here, to deal with that on his own. With me gone, all those people that said hateful things about me will find a new target. It can't be Marcus."  
  
Lissa finds she can't argue. She's still angry— she knows what she saw. Nobody would blame her, Robin least of all, if she lashed out against her brother's killer. "Lucina will miss you."  
  
Robin chuckles without humor. "She won't. She thinks I'm a monster— you do, too."  
  
And Lissa can't say she's wrong. "I know what I saw."  
  
"What you saw was the truth," Robin says. "I killed Chrom. You have all the reasons in the world to be furious with me."  
  
"And now you're going to go hide?" Lissa knows she shouldn't lash out now, when she knows she'll start crying and she has to go address all the reports in minutes, but she can't help it— "Now, when things seem a little tough for you?"  
  
"I should've done this a long time ago," Robin says, and something about her voice warps and changes, like there's three of her speaking, warped and deeper than her ordinary voice. "We are pursuing what we were meant to be. Wasting time here was a pointless diversion."  
  
Lissa is genuinely confused. "Wait, is something wrong? What's with…"  
  
"Nothing at all is wrong," Robin continues. "Things will work out just fine. Exactly the way they were meant to be. You cannot fight fate, mortal. Though you may try, you never can."  
  
Robin finishes packing her things in the sactchel and turns to leave. "You say that we are a monster. If it is so, then we always were, and if it is so, you once called us a friend."  
  
Lissa finds her voice. "If it is so," she says. Then she swallows. "If it is so, then all those hateful farts— they were right about you, all along."  
  
And inside, where Robin is Robin, Lissa's words cut deep. They bleed and drip, foaming blood that is too dark to be human spilling from a jagged wound. But the Robin that is speaking does not falter as she walks out of the study.  
  
"Console yourself with accusations if you must," she says, glancing back. Her eyes are scarlet and four more have opened in her cheeks. "Your whinging will be inconsequential soon enough."  
  
And Lissa doesn't know what that means, but it chills her to the bone.

* * *

  
Outside the window of the study, Marcus clutches the Flux tome he'd found a bit tighter. Under the cover of the falling nighttime, he adjusts the strap of his bag and darts into the shadows. Tonight is the night, then.

* * *

  
  
_Naga,_  
  
_Hi again, it's me, Nah. I don't know if you're listening because it's hard to tell sometimes, but I'm very scared. Marcus hasn't been himself and I know he would never mean to hurt me, but he has and we don't know why. I haven't seen him since he ran away from me yesterday, and even though I want to find him and tell him it's okay, I'm not afraid of him, it would be a lie, because now, I think I kind of am. He's upset that people don't love him anymore, even though I do, because a symbol showed up in his eye. How did it get there? Does it hurt him?_  
  
_Things are very scary. I heard people talking about the Garrison being attacked. If that happens, do I have to go back to the red house? I think that scares me more than the Risen ever did. I hope something burns it down someday, but that's not what I'm asking you for._  
  
_Naga, people are saying you are dead because your Voice is dead. I don't believe that, and I really hope it isn't true. Who would I talk to then? Even if you don't always respond, you're good to talk to because then I don't feel so all alone. And with Marcus gone too, then if you are gone, I really will be all alone. I'm scared and I don't know what to do. Nobody else knows my secret name and if he dies then we won't be able to tell it to people together._  
  
_But I want Marcus to be alright, because he hasn't done anything wrong and nothing bad should happen to him. So please, Naga, if you're listening, protect him from whatever it is that's telling him he's a scary monster because of the thing in his eye. He's not, even if the gross people say there's something wrong with him. He's my best friend and he could never be a monster._  
  
_I'll try to send offerings soon, but the people at the kitchen don't like giving me extra helpings of food if it means I just burn them._  
  
_Nah_


	4. Act I-  The Children of the Garrison: IV- The Blessed, the Powerless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"But this is where you grew up," Marcus says. "Why would anything here hurt us?"_
> 
> It hurts when you can't be the hero your son thinks you are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [gif of that yellow dude from dhmis 1 dancing]
> 
> i stayed up until 5am two nights in a row to write this pls tell me its worth it to have a bigass chapter
> 
> i had to invent the plegian language for this. anya and morgan speak northwestern plegian, a coarser dialect mixed with native feroxi and some valmese influences, while marcus picked up the more traditional form robin knows that's basically the equivalent of latin.

To Marcus, Dahiri is a magical place— all the bustle and chaos of Ylisse, but with buildings unafraid to lean and spill over onto each other, catwalks and staircases and levels interacting in a chaotic form of harmony, rugs and banners and clothing on lines criss-crossing overhead, things dangling from bridges and off railings. And there's magic running beneath the sun-baked stone of the roads, magic he feels sparking at his fingertips like horses itching to run, magic he never felt quite as much in Ylisse. Once he and his mother pass through the city walls, bolstered to protect the people within from threats that endanger them as much as they do Ylisse, Marcus feels they've entered an exciting new world of wonder.  
  
For Robin, it's much less so. The crowded, lively streets of Plegia's capitol had always been on a lower tier than the upper-story libaries and studies where she spent her time. She had always been taught that her place was studying, learning, up away from the people. They'd look to her for guidance one day, her father said. For guidance. For leadership. For salvation.  
  
Robin had been thirteen when he first mentioned the salvation part. _But I don't know how to save anybody,_ she'd protested. And he'd said sharply, _hush, girl. You will learn._ So Robin had shut up and gone back to her books, because she mustn't ever talk back to her father— that was the way things worked. Being outspoken and rebellious worked for Rohan because he had somewhere to run away to, but what did Robin have beyond the castle walls? No, her place was obedience, and for a time, that was all the reinforcement she needed to adhere to such an expectation. For a time.  
  
"You _lived_ here?" Marcus's eyes are wide and full of wonder when he asks. "Are we going to live here now?"  
  
"Hopefully," Robin replies. "We're going to meet your grandfather next."  
  
"Is he a good guy?" Marcus asks. "Dad's parents died a long time ago, right, so I've never met a grandfather before."  
  
If he was anything but "a good guy" to her son, Robin was going to abandon everything she'd learned about ettiquitte and tear him limb from limb, throwing to the wind all prophecy and ceremony that came with the Plegian political tradition of offing those in power in very specific ways.  
  
"He's family," Robin tells Marcus, even though it makes the back of her mouth taste bitter. She swallows. "It'll be alright. I won't let anything here hurt you."  
  
"But this is where you grew up," Marcus says. "Why would anything here hurt us?"  
  
It's then Robin feels something yank hard in the pit of her stomach. She wants to go crawling back to the Garrison with her tail between her legs and tell Lissa _do with me as you do with traitors, just don't hurt Marcus,_ just so he doesn't have to experience what being Marked means. But she's come too far to turn back now. She was going to have to face her family sooner or later— and she doesn't want to think about what will happen if Grima starts talking to Marcus before he's somewhere he can learn to control his new powers.  
  
"Sometimes it's impossible to know what will hurt you, and how," Robin says. And then she squeezes her son's hand and leads him through the crowded city streets.  
  
They walk into the palace through the front doors. The guards recognize her— at least, they recognize that she looks like Rohan, and he used to bribe them every night to let him out. She tells them who she is in Plegian, and they exchange glances and open the door.  
  
_"The High Priest has been waiting for you, my lady,"_ one of them says. _"He's in the languages library."_  
  
Marcus looks at her in confusion. "What're they saying?"  
  
"I'll teach you another time," Robin promises.  
  
At the very least, the palace hasn't changed. It's still all polished stone, with intricite mosaics on the floors of the sky and stars, and high ceilings with high, narrow windows set into the sides. The place has never really felt like home, and it still doesn't. Her skin crawls thinking about the fact that this is where she'll spend the rest of her days.  
  
The language library is one of the smaller libraries, on the ground floor rather than the second, but it's ideal for meeting guests because it has those doors to the gardens. Robin isn't certain why the palace has so many libraries, but she's not complaining. That's where High Priest Validar is now, hands on his dragon-bone cane, scowling out the windows at the gardens, with two people Robin had hoped not to see— her brother Rohan, and Validar's student, Aversa.  
  
All three of them turn when Robin entered. The tension is palatable— Validar and Rohan must've just been arguing, which isn't surprising at all. Robin halfheartedly wonders what Rohan is doing here after he left to get married, or whatever it was that Robin honestly couldn't give fewer shits about.  
  
Validar opens his arms. _"Rajni,"_ he says, pretending to be welcoming. In Robin's head, alarm bells go off. She fights every instinct she has to bolt, and bobs her head.  
  
_"Father,"_ she says. Her Plegian is rusty, but she slips back into its cadence as naturally as she would her ever-present coat. _"It's good to see you again."_  
  
_"How I've missed you,"_ Validar says, hobbling over to her. They do not embrace. Validar gives her an awkward pat on the shoulder. It's not like Robin was expecting anything else. She smiles, and it's obviously fake, but it's not like anybody cares whether her smile is real or not. Maybe Chrom wouldn't have liked where she's from and what she is, but he cared what she thought and wanted her to be happy. She couldn't say the same for her father.  
  
He looks at Marcus, and gives a smile that does not reach his eyes and makes him look like a snake that sprouted limbs. _"And who is this?"_  
  
Marcus steps back, holding Robin's hand tighter. Robin answers for him, _"My son, Marcus. He doesn't speak Plegian, I'm afraid. I never got the chance to teach him."_  
  
_"Mm."_ It's that sound Validar makes that makes it impossible to tell whether he approves or disapproves. _"We'll have to fix that then, won't we?"_  
  
Robin doesn't like the way that sounds. _Keep your claws away from my son,_ she wants to growl. But she can't, so she doesn't.

"Seems Ylisse was as nice as you expected," Rohan sneers. _"Considering you somehow got its ruler into bed with you. How much did he pay? A dozen sovereigns?"_ Aversa rolls her eyes and looks out the window into the garden, obviously only there because she goes where Validar goes.

Robin bristles. _"Accusing me of being a king's whore,"_ she replies. "How original."

"It's impressive, is all I'm saying," Rohan shrugs nonchalantly. He leans on the table, like an asshole. Robin did not miss hearing him talk. _"Did he know what you are-- what we are? About the rotten blood that you pass on to however many of his brats you pop out? Or did you lie to him so he'd keep you like a stray dog?"_

Blood rushes in her ears. _"Enn'etaya ash'ha se ilo na'vya,"_ she says. Validar's hand tightens around his cane and he glowers, and even Aversa looks shocked. It isn't often Robin makes use of her considerable vocabulary of old Plegian turns of phrase, but sometimes it's necessary. Oh, Validar will be angry with her for losing her well-kept composure, and Robin has not forgotten his way of discipline. She's not sure why she chose to argue, anyway. Perhaps spending time with Chrom and his family, where she is not only allowed but expected and encouraged to speak, to give her thoughts. Her entire job and the lives of several dozen people once rode on what she believed is the best option. If Rohan were to come into the Garrison and tell her these things, Chrom would've encouraged her to tell him off, and more than likely backed her up. But Chrom is dead, and her life is back to Validar and Rohan and hoarding food, nosebleeds and headaches and bruises and the cane. Her hands tighten around the strap of her bag. She regrets even opening her mouth-- she regrets not just taking Rohan's beratement like she did when she was young and everything she learned was that she was nothing, would always be nothing if she didn't accept it and follow orders.  
  
Marcus did not grow up with this mindset. His eyes burn. Robin has seen that look in both Chrom and Lucina before. "Don't—" he starts to say, stepping forward, but Robin puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls him back. He settles for glaring contempt at Rohan in the way that only an eight-year-old can.  
  
Robin can't find it in her to argue. She glares at the table, littered with books written in Plegian script. _He can't talk to you that way,_ the red voice in her brain says. _Show him what happens when he insults us._  
  
She doesn't. Rohan sneers. "That's what I thought."  
  
Marcus looks up at Robin in disbelief, silently asking why she's not fighting back. Robin doesn't meet his eyes. She wants to deal Rohan a low blow— asking if his wife finally left him for someone that isn't such a cad, perhaps— but she's clenching her jaw too hard to dare open her mouth. She's already cursed him. Validar will be upset if she continues. How she can be simultaneously "good for nothing but following orders" and "above such low-born pettiness" at the same time is beyond her.  
  
_"If you are quite finished,"_ Validar says icily, looking from one twin to the other. "Rajni has quite a lot of catching up to do. Perhaps her son would like to explore the castle a bit? I'm certain he'll find the extensive libraries interesting." He nods to Marcus.  
  
Marcus looks at Robin reluctantly.  
  
"Go ahead," Robin nods. "I'll be right here if you need me, I promise."  
  
He doesn't want to leave his mother with these people, whom she clearly doesn't like. But he detaches himself from her coat and clenches his little fists, glaring at Rohan for good measure as he leaves through the doors to the gardens.

* * *

  
  
It's Julius. The summer is in full swing, and the sun is scorching hot. In Ylisse, hailstorms have been sweeping through the damp, swampy southeastern regions. They seem to have spared Plegia, though, because the desert land is as hot as one would expect during the month of Julius. Marcus has his jacket stuffed in his mother's bag, but at least the Plegia-made clothing is meant for this sort of lethal heat. He still wonders how anyone survives in this place.  
  
The gardens are nice, even if the plants are weird. They're all waxy or covered in spines, and Marcus tried to touch one and ended up yanking his hand back in surprise when it started to close on his finger. Everything that doesn't look outright dangerous is deceptively docile-looking, and is probably some variety of deadly poison. Marcus wonders how a country like this, which in his limited experience is full of mean people, burning-hot weather, and lethal flora and fauna, produced somebody like his mother.  
  
He crouches in front of a little spherical plant with spikes. There's a flower blooming on it. It looks kind of like a little round old lady wearing a big hat, except it's a plant. He wants to touch it, because the part that's not spiky looks very smooth, but it's all spiky, so he doesn't.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees another small brown hand reaching for the long-leaved plant next to him. It touches the leaves gently, as if memorizing the texture.  
  
He looks over. There's a girl there, about Lucina's age, with very pale eyes focused on nothing at all. She's very focused on the leaf, tracing it to the tip. Maybe she likes the way it feels.  
  
"Hi," Marcus says. "That's a nice… leaf."  
  
The girl tilts her head in his direction. "Yeah, I think so. Who are you?"  
  
"I'm Marcus," he says. "My mother and I just arrived. I think we're going to be living here for awhile. Mama doesn't seem to like it much, but she didn't ask me what I thought, so."  
  
She nods. "I'm Saria," she replies. "I think you'll be fine living here, but I've never lived anywhere else, so. Where did you move from?"  
  
"Ylisse," Marcus tells her, seeing no reason to keep it a secret. "Something weird is going on with my eye, so mama said we're coming here until we know how to deal with it, so I don't hurt anybody by accident. I don't want to hurt anybody, so I said okay. My sister is keeping people safe back in Ylisse."  
  
"Weird," Saria shrugs. "It's hotter here than it is in Ylisse, I think. I've read about it. Do they really have swamps as big as cities?"  
  
Marcus doesn't know that. "Probably?" he shrugs. "We only traveled through swamplands a little bit before we got here. Mama doesn't like swamps, and I don't think I do either. They smell bad. Hey, why are you touching the leaf?"  
  
Saria blinks. "It's green," she says.  
  
"Yeah?" Marcus doesn't see the connection.  
  
"Not much else here is green, so," Saria says it like it's obvious, but Marcus doesn't get it. "Hey, come here."  
  
Marcus scoots a little closer. Saria puts her hand on his face. She rubs her thumb on the bridge of his nose for a second, then retracts it. "You're black," she says.  
  
"I always thought I was more brown?" Marcus is officially very confused. "Can you feel colors? If that's the case, I think your color-feeler is busted, because I'm definitely more brown than black."  
  
"No you're not," Saria shakes her head. Her scarlet hair, cut close to her head, shakes with it. "Brown is baking bread and dirt and tree trunks. You're thunderclouds and cold water and ink spilled across pages. Dark and foreboding, but not scary. It's nice."  
  
Marcus well and truly does not know what to make of that. "Um," he says. "Thanks?"  
  
"You're welcome," Saria says. Then she realizes what she said is probably weird, and frowns. "Sorry. Mother says it's strange to touch people's faces and say what color they are."  
  
"A bit, I guess?" Marcus admits. "It's not that weird. My cousin Owain does some weirder things, like he says there's an uncontrollable power in his sword hand and it calls him to do battle against injustice. But it makes for a fun game." It _did_ , at least. The thought makes him sad, but he pushes it away. "Who's your mother?"  
  
"She's the silver one," Saria tries to explain. "Sharp and poisoned and lethal to those she mistrusts. The polished surface mirrors and silver knives. Frost in the mornings. Deadly and lonesome but forgiving, from the right angle."  
  
"… Alright," Marcus says. "Cool. Silver. And I'm black? Does everyone have a color?"  
  
"Some colors are similar to others, but," Saria shrugs. "Yes. And things have colors too— that's how I know what color they are. Like fire is orange when it's far enough away, but it's white when you get too close. It also burns. Don't try to touch fire. But that's what orange feels like— a very specific shade of orange, anyway. The roads are a different orange. I think the texture of whatever it is has to do with it."  
  
Marcus guesses she's speaking from experience. "Do you have a color?" he asks.  
  
Saria is quiet for a long time. She frowns, eyebrows furrowed, head pointed upwards and a little to the left. Then she lowers it, scratching at her face in thought. "No," she finally says, turning back to Marcus's general direction. "I don't think I do."

Marcus tries to imagine Saria's train of thought when she thinks of colors, and can't. "I guess not everything has to have a color," he says. "The air doesn't. And ghosts."  
  
Saria hums. She doesn't believe him. Marcus supposes that's alright, too— older kids are hard to understand, and near-impossible to convince of things. He stands up and looks back at the language library doors. His mother is there, talking with the tall lady in black with the face paint that was in the room before. She catches his eye and waves. He waves back.  
  
"I'll leave you to that, then," he says. "The flowers on that big spiky plant probably feel nice. I'll see you later."  
  
"Bye, Marcus," she says absently. Marcus leaves, in search of books— no pun intended. _Damn_ , he thinks. He could've used that.

* * *

  
  
The language library is wonderful, Marcus finds out. Slices of sunlight fall through the stained-glass windows and land on the floor in colored shapes of light when he becomes aware of time again. He feels vaguely hungry. It must be lunchtime. He's about to get up and ask his mother if they eat food in Plegia when he sees a two girls going through his bag.  
  
One looks like a baby and the other is his age. They both have the sun-dark skin clearly common in Plegia and short mops of dark brown hair. They're both barefoot. The older one is tall and gangly while the other is toddler-shaped, which is to say vaguely like a potato with limbs. The older one is going through his bag, perhaps looking for money or valuables, while the other stands nearby sucking on two of her fingers, trying to get a look at what her sister is doing.  
  
"Hey, that's mine!" Marcus protests. The girls look up like deer caught in torchlight. A second later, the older one grabs the smaller one's hand and sprints out of the library, taking Marcus's bag with her.  
  
They're clearly better at running on stone floors than he is. He slides and tumbles into the wall while they make a ninety-degree turn down the hall. But he's not about to let a couple of pint-sized bag thieves get away so easily.  
  
He growls to himself as he stands back up— a Plegian swear he picked up from his mother. He doesn't know what it means. There's nothing even that interesting in his bag anyway, he thinks to himself as he chases the bag thieves. Just cool-looking rocks and stuff he picked up on the trip over. One of them is a little tiny geode, which is neat! He wants to give it to Nah as a present when he gets back to Ylisse.  
  
"There you are!" he shouts, pointing. when he sees them turn into a room— a guest room, or something. There's a bed behind a screen, and an unmade pallet of quilts on the floor. "Thieves!"  
  
The older sister shouts something in Plegian, pointing at him. She's clutching his bag in her hand. _"Ie, daisaan! U djibu!"_  
  
_"Dji-bu!"_ the younger sister repeats, giggling like it's a funny game. _"Dji-bu! Dji-bu!"_  
  
What does that even mean? Marcus gives her his best glare. "Give me my bag back, you— you jerks!"  
  
"Jeerk?" the older one repeats, confused. _"Djibu!"_ And then more angry Plegian.  
  
"I don't know what you're saying!" Marcus says, frustrated. "I just want my stuff back! It doesn't belong to you!"  
  
She replies with something else Plegian that Marcus doesn't understand. "I'm no thief," she says, glaring at him. "You're not from here. Y'could be a spy. _Djibu!_ That's spy."  
  
"I am not!" Marcus feels offended. "I just want my bag back."  
  
"Any money?" she asks. "What's in the bag so much you keep it for yourself, _djibu?_ So important?"  
  
"Just rocks and stuff?" Marcus doesn't know half of what she's saying. "I didn't bring any money, so can I have it back?"  
  
The older thief pulls out a stick of maple candy. _"Nu'ta se yav'iya? Ie?"_ She offers the candy to her sister, who takes it without undoing the wax paper coating and tries to put it in her mouth.  
  
"That's mine," Marcus tries to say, again. "Give it back!"  
  
_"Se yav'iya!"_ the thief huffs, tossing the bag at him. "Take your bag. Nothing good in it anyway."  
  
"Why'd you want it so much, anyway?" Marcus asks. "You're in a castle. If you wanna take stuff, there's loads of it."  
  
"'Cause I wanted it," the theif shrugs. "I see what I want, I take it. This isn't a store, so I can."  
  
"You can't just steal people's stuff without asking," Marcus says. "It's rude."  
  
_"Tia tha'raaze rom djibu,"_ the girl says. "And what if you were a spy, huh?"  
  
"What's that got to do with anything?" Marcus is more bewildered by her reasoning than by her flip-flopping between languages.  
  
"Could've been one," she brings up. "Could've been plotting. Planning. We _Dahi'mona,_ Plegians— we have to stay one step ahead."  
  
_"Danamoma,"_ the littler thief repeats around the wrapped-up maple candy in her mouth. _"Anya, u Dji-bu?"_  
  
_"U, no ke'ye sansu te djibu,"_ her sister, Anya, says. "He's just some kid with dumb rocks in his bag."  
  
"They're not dumb, you jerk!" Marcus protests. "Rocks are cool!"  
  
"Cool to throw, maybe," Anya shrugs. She pulls a slingshot out of her back pocket and steals a rock from Marcus's bag too quickly for Marcus to yank it away. She pulls it back and aims at the door behind Marcus.  
  
"Hey, you could hurt someone with that," Marcus protests.  
  
She smirks. "Don't be _u ji, yazuya,"_ Anya says, choosing a good spot to fire the rock.  
  
"What does that mean?" Marcus asks.  
  
_"U ji?"_ Anya tells him. "Ant. Means you're annoying."  
  
"I'm not a baby!" Marcus protests. "Give me my rock back!"  
  
"It's just a dumb rock, _u ji,"_ Anya teases. "Find another one."  
  
"But that one is _mine_ ," Marcus insists. "You're a real jerk, you know that? You're… _the'lana de tukai yav'iya!"_  
  
Anya frowns, furrowing her eyebrows. "You hope my laundry rots?"  
  
Marcus tackles her, grappling for his rock. With a whoof, they both land on the floor. Anya releases the slingshot, completely by accident. The rock bounces off a bookshelf on the other side of the room and smashes through the window.  
  
Everything is totally silent. Anya and Marcus, who have not moved since the window broke, are completely still. Even the baby pauses in her gnawing at the package of maple candy. She takes it out of her mouth, stares at the window, and then looks at Anya.  
  
_"Enna dev djiru ta tha'raaze,"_ Anya finally says.  
  
"What does that mean?" Marcus asks.  
  
She looks at him, dead serious. "Means we're dead meat when grandfather finds out."

* * *

  
  
Robin is in the garden in the meantime, talking with Aversa— their relationship is complicated, but Robin hopes they're friends. She and Aversa were on good terms before Robin left for Ylisse, but with their last meeting being what it was, it wouldn't have surprised Robin if that put a dampener on their relationship. But things seem alright. They've made smalltalk.  
  
So when a window on the second floor breaks and the rock shoots itself into the pillar right beside Robin's head. it's quite a surprise.  
  
Aversa curses in Plegian. "Now what could that be?"  
  
Robin looks at the broken window. She's catches a glimpse of two small faces, wide-eyed at the damage, in the window. "Someone was playing with a slingshot," Robin says. She picks up the rock— it's the right size for a slingshot. It's smooth green stone with layers of lighter mineral streaked through it, polished and rounded by a flowing river. Marcus picked it up outside Ylisstol.  
  
"A slingshot?" Aversa asks. "One of Rohan's brats had a slingshot. I saw her shooting crows with pebbles."  
  
"And this is one of Marcus's rocks," Robin says, tucking it in her pocket. "They must've met. I wonder what possessed them to play with a slingshot indoors?" Robin sighs, and turns to go back inside. "Doubtless father will be annoyed when he finds out. I'll clean this up."  
  
Aversa nods to her, and Robin goes back inside. She's down the hallway, heading towards the broken window, when the language library doors crash open again. There's a sound like a pair of small bodies slamming into the wall, and then the two of them sprint past her, make a hairpin turn, and come to a stop in front of her. Well, one does— the other can't quite get his feet under him, and ends up sprawled in the hallway.  
  
It's Marcus, and Rohan's daughter. _"Ene u ke'neva ta kasa,"_ the girl says quickly, though she's the one with the slingshot. "We were messin' around a-and _esne'ya u ji ta mene sameyo—"_  
  
"Anya did it!" Marcus says, scrambling to his feet. "She took my rock and called me a baby and it was her fault, not me—"  
  
"You made me shoot it!" Anya protests. "If you hadn't _tackled_ me—"  
  
"If you hadn't _stolen_ my _bag_ , we wouldn't be in trouble!" Marcus interrupts. "You're a liar and a thief!"  
  
_"E'va yane tia u ma Marcus sameya djibu!"_ Anya protests, trying to shove Marcus. Marcus, not content to take that lying down, grabs her arms and tries to shove back.  
  
"Both of you, stop this!" Robin interrupts, pushing them apart. Anya protests and struggles against her for a bit, but settles for glaring at Marcus. Marcus sticks his tongue out.  
  
"I'm sure it was an accident, and neither of you meant any harm," Robin says.  
  
"Anya tried to steal my stuff!" Marcus protests.  
  
"And Anya's going to apologize for it once I find her father," Robin promises.  
  
"He's the one who tackled me," Anya retorts.  
  
"Only because you stole my stuff!" Marcus fires back.  
  
"You made me fire the slingshot and break the window!" Anya tries to kick him, and it doesn't work.  
  
"And Marcus is going to apologize for tackling you, as well," Robin says. "But until then, both of you need to stop for a minute and take a breath. And when we calm down, we'll find Anya's dad and put this matter to rest, and then we'll tell grandfather about the broken window."  
  
Wonder of wonders, it works. Anya and Marcus are both old enough and calm enough to understand what she's saying, even if they don't want to hear it. Though they're still glaring at each other, they're both quiet enough that Robin can take Marcus's hand with one hand and Anya's with the other, and start walking them both down the hallway in search of Rohan and a solution to the conflict.

* * *

  
  
They find Rohan in the game room, stacking game pieces into what looks like an awesome fort— Robin isn't sure if finding him is a good thing or a bad thing, considering it's never been good for her in the past. But this is more important than whatever she's been overreacting to for the past thirty or so years.  
  
"Your daughter is just delightful," Robin tells him. "I can only wonder how she shares your genes at all."  
  
"Considering your son doesn't appear to be a traitor or a liar, I've been wondering the same thing," Rohan replies. "And yet here we are. What happened now?"  
  
He gets out of his chair and crouches in front of Anya. Anya rubs her nose and looks away, gripping Robin's hand. _"Namaye ilo ne'baza,"_ she mumbles. "Was an accident. Didn't mean to break the window."  
  
"Uh-huh," Rohan says. "Did you fight?"  
  
Anya nods. "Little bit."  
  
"Did you try to steal again?" Rohan continues. Anya nods again, lowering her head.  
  
Rohan sighs. "I've told you about stealing before, peanut," he says. "Even if it's not from a store, it's wrong."  
  
"I gave him his stupid bag back," Anya mutters.  
  
"But did you apologize?" Rohan presses. Anya shakes her head.  
  
"He tackled me an' an' made me shoot it," Anya says.  
  
Which is where Robin comes in. She crouches to his level, tucking his hair out of his eyes. Rohan looks at Marcus, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"I wanted to get my rock back," he mumbles. "Anya took it. I wanted it back and she wouldn't give it."  
  
"But that wasn't the right way to do it, was it?" Robin says. "Don't you think you could've gotten hurt, either you or Anya?"  
  
"Yeah," Marcus admits. "That wasn't the right thing to do."  
  
"But we're going to do it differently next time," Robin says. "It's alright, baby. We're making things right now. Nobody's mad at you, promise. Now, are you ready to apologize?"  
  
Marcus nods. Rohan looks at Anya expectantly, and she nods as well.  
  
Robin backs off. Anya sticks out her hand. Marcus looks at Robin skeptically, as if he still doesn't trust this girl. While he's distracted, Anya licks her hand and grabs his, and shakes it firmly. Marcus grimaces, but he can recognize when he's bested, and shakes her hand. When Anya releases it, he wipes it on his pants.  
  
"Sorry I stole your bag," Anya says. "Your rocks are kind of cool."  
  
"Sorry I tackled you," Marcus replies. "Thanks. Your slingshot is pretty neat."  
  
While they're talking, Robin sighs. "That could've been nasty."  
  
Rohan chuckles. "Yeah. We could've had to pry them apart with a crowbar— remember that time dad almost had to do that?"  
  
Robin does remember that. "I'm so glad I cut my hair short after that. You'd grab big fistfuls and yank otherwise. And there was that time you nailed my braid to the bed when I was sleeping. And—"  
  
"Point taken," Rohan admits. "Though, uh… you're not so bad with kids."  
  
A _compliment_ from _Rohan?_ She's not sure she's hearing right. She can only stare at him for a minute, like he's grown a second head. This is the man she just told, essentially, to go fuck a camel and now he's telling her that maybe she's not terrible at something? Who is this and what did he do to her obnoxious older brother?

"Thank you," she manages, uncertainly and, in fact, quite awkwardly. "You're... not bad yourself."  
  
Something occurs to Rohan. "Hey," he realizes. "Where's the baby?"

* * *

  
  
In the garden, the little thief has just wandered out of the castle. She looks around, searching for her sister, or otherwise something to solve her problem. She frowns at the wrapped-up maple candy in her hands, knowing there's something tasty in it and utterly unable to get at it. She's tried chewing on it, tried hitting it against a wall, tried pulling it apart with her little baby hands— all to no avail. She shakes it in frustration, then throws it on the ground.  
  
That doesn't work either. She sniffles, and looks around— even if Anya is gone, she can still find someone else. She spots Saria standing in the garden, playing with a lizard she found in one of the shrubs, and toddles up to her.  
  
_"Neda,"_ she says, offering Saria the candy. _"Neda ba dadayo. Baba?"_  
  
Saria tilts her head. _"Baba?"_ she repeats, as the baby pushes the candy into Saria's hand. Saria nods.  
  
"If that's all you wanted," Saria shrugs, ripping open the package. "Careful, okay, baba _?_ It's sticky."  
  
The baby grins, a drooly toddler grin, and pushes herself into Saria's arms, babbling happily. _"Baba neda tia dede yayo!"_ she says happily. _"Baba dadayo!"_  
  
Saria smiles, and pats the baby's head. "Glad I could help. _Me'vana tia eveyo."_  
  
The baby toddles off, chewing on her candy. Life is good.

* * *

 

With that problem solved, Robin returns to the garden. Aversa is watching Saria read in the garden, her fingers running along pages of books with raised letters.  
  
"Your son is quite the sweet little boy," Aversa notices. "He looks like his father."  
  
Robin's smile, though it wasn't large or real to begin with, fades. "He does," she says.  
  
"It must be hard," Aversa comments.  
  
"No harder than the first one," Robin shrugs. "But I can't say I know what to expect now. Dealing with Lucina was always easier— more predictable, I suppose. They're both brilliant, but Lucina applies that differently. She's so trusting. Marcus is craftier. He thinks differently. One of these days, he'll outsmart me for real."  
  
Aversa hums. "Why didn't you tell him the truth?" she asks. "About Rohan."  
  
Robin thinks for a minute. "I'm not sure you know what it's like," she says. "It's like being back in a cage I thought I'd escaped, only now I don't just have my own hide to worry about. I don't want Marcus finding out about this type of thing, not like this. Not when he's still so young. He'll get it in his head he has to fight Rohan for my honor, or something, and that— I don't want that for him. He's just a boy."  
  
The conversation lingers there, silent. Robin watches the girl in the garden that Marcus mentioned count the petals on a flowering plant, then move on to the next flower. It seems relaxing, whatever it is she's doing.  
  
"I meant what I said, you know," Robin says.  
  
"Hm?" Aversa quirks an eyebrow.  
  
"At the battle in May," Robin explains. "I said I hoped that, when we met again, it was under better circumstances."  
  
"And did you get your wish?" Aversa asks.  
  
"No," Robin shrugs. "But when have my wishes ever mattered?"  
  
Aversa doesn't know what to say to that. "You loved him, didn't you?"  
  
Robin is silent.  
  
"I may not feel it myself, not like that, but," Aversa brushes her hair off her shoulder. "I know what love looks like. You don't get to be my age without knowing these things."  
  
"I told father and Rohan it was a ruse," Robin says. "That it meant nothing to me. All of it— fighting his battles, winning his wars, having his children. That I left Lucina behind seems proof enough for them of that. To them, Marcus is… an extenuating circumstance. Another part of the show."  
  
She presses the heel of her hand to her forehead. "And the worst part is," she says, voice cracking. "Lucina _knows_. Somehow, she knows— the Brand, probably. She knew it before it happened that I'd kill her father. And when we last talked, the last time, she said— she asked me if it was all a lie. And I told her no, but I knew that's what I'd have to pretend. That it was all a big ruse. That I never loved her father, never loved her, never loved her brother. That I was a traitor all along. She called me a liar and tried to hit me." Robin chokes out a halfhearted laugh. "I can't say she's wrong."  
  
Aversa sets a hand on her shoulder. "We don't always have the power we need," she says, quietly. "Sometimes we're just unlucky. Sometimes others take it from us. But we do what we must to survive."  
  
Robin rubs her eyes. "We're different. You're not a monster."  
  
"Some would disagree," Aversa replies. "And I'm lucky enough to be blessed in the most unexpected ways." She nods to the girl reading in the garden. They have the same chin, Robin notices. The same cheeks. The same nose, and eyes. Robin has never been able to see Aversa as a mother before, and yet here she stands, watching over her child in the best way that she knows how.  
  
"You know why I returned," Robin murmurs. "What I have to do. What I have to bring to life."  
  
"I know," Aversa says.

Robin says nothing. It has been a long time since they last met and the last time they did so was on the battlefield when they had to pretend to be enemies, and the last time Aversa held her was in her early teenage years. But Aversa does again, now, as they sit together on the outside couch with its slightly-dusty cushions. Robin has missed this.  
  
"Keep Marcus safe for me," Robin asks. "Please. From— from whatever I become. And when the time comes and you can't stay any longer, take Marcus and your daughter and leave, flee as far as you can go. If the Garrison is still standing and if anyone is still alive within, they will take you." _I hope._  
  
"I will," Aversa promises.  
  
"I'll be a monster," Robin says, more to herself than Aversa. "Though… I suppose that's always been the case."  
  
"You could never be a monster," Aversa tells her. "Not with all the dark magic in the world. Nothing could ever dim your light."  
  
"Things won't get better," Robin says.  
  
"They don't have to," Aversa replies. "I will still love you."  
  
"I don't believe you," Robin mutters.  
  
"You don't have to," Aversa repeats. "It's okay."  
  
It's not. But the words are nice, so Robin nods. _It's okay. It's okay. It's okay.  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the phrase "the'lana de tukai yav'iya" literally translated means "i hope your laundry rots," but adults mostly use it because the word for laundry and the word for anus are very similar. so if you're a grownup in plegia talking to your archenemy, you say that with a rude gesture and they'll be rightfully insulted, because you've basically just said "i hope your asshole rots." congratulations now you know how to make enemies in plegia
> 
> also "dahi'mona" means "people of dahia." "dahia" means "plegia" in the plegian language and "dahiri," the name of the capitol city, literally means "city of plegia." fun language facts


	5. Fear Not the Darkness in Your Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Validar grumbles, cane clicking on the floor. The handle is carved in the shape of a crow. "Rajni possesses magical skill both innate and trained, only enhanced by her blood. If she cannot overcome exertion at this level, perhaps she is too weak." He glances at Marcus as they walk down the hall._
> 
> _She's not weak, Marcus wants to shout. She's the strongest person I know, tied with my sister and my aunt Lissa._
> 
> The strongest spirits think they're weak if they're told so enough.

It's the end of Julius. Marcus has learned to stay indoors, for the most part. That's alright, it's too hot outside to do much of anything anyway. What Anya does all day is a mystery, but she always comes back in the late afternoon with her pockets full of pebbles and insects, with scraped knees and dirt on her face. She takes Marcus through her collection one by one, and they talk about how cool bugs are. One time, she caught a lizard as big as her hand— that was a good day.  
  
"Focus, boy," his grandfather is saying. His cane clicks on the stone floor as he walks. Marcus breathes again, sweat dripping down the side of his head. He glares at the training dummy set up in the practice hall. "You're not merely hitting the dummy. You are tearing apart its very essence. Feel the darkness in your veins."  
  
"I'm trying," Marcus complains. He wipes the blood away from his nose.  
  
"Try harder," Validar says. He pokes Marcus's foot with his cane. "Your stance."  
  
Marcus doesn't want to try harder. He's exhausted and hungry and kind of wishes Validar would just have a heart attack or whatever it is old people do. But arguing with his grandfather never goes well, so he glowers at the dummy and blasts it again. This time the energy from the Flux tome runs down his arm and out his hand, and wraps around the dummy like a snake crushing its prey. It falls to the floor, and would most certainly be crying if it were a person.  
  
Validar makes a noise that's not quite a hum of approval, but it's not a growl of disapproval, either. "Boy, do your hands feel cold when you cast?"  
  
"A little," Marcus admits.  
  
"That is darkness," Validar says. "Channel it from the leylines that run beneath the surface of the earth. Think of all the anger you have felt, all the unfairness at the world, and put it into your hand. Your blood runs with the power of dark beings— do not fear the darkness, boy. This is what you were born to do."  
  
He says that a lot. Marcus still doesn't know what it means. "Yes, grandfather," he says.  
  
_"Ashi'jara an'aba leneta, ha'veha iyoshah, dahi'ja,"_ Validar says, looking to Robin leaning against the wall with her arms folded. "Rajni, come. Show your son the magic he must master."  
  
Robin glares, eyes glinting scarlet. As near as Marcus can figure, something about this place, or maybe its people, makes her antsy and short-tempered. But she obeys without complaint, boots loud on the hard stone tile.  
  
She raises a hand. Marcus tries to offer her the tome, but she waves it off. She says something that sounds to Marcus like something far older than the academic Plegian he's a month into learning— whereas Plegian sounds like thunderclouds gathering on the horizon and the crackling of a campfire, this sounds far more sinister, like the sound the earth makes before it's about to split. When she speaks the incantation, Marcus gets images of cities burning and the earth breaking in two, and lava from beneath blasting upwards in waves of blinding heat. He tastes blood in his mouth and feels the ground shake loud as his world roars, roars in a cacophony of motion both dissonant and harmonic at the same time. He hears laughter and does not know why.  
  
His eye, the one with the Mark, aches. He rubs it. The incantation was two words, but Marcus feels like he just aged six years listening to the chaos in shades of scarlet that consumed his brain for what had to have been an instant that felt like far longer. He tries to recall what he saw, but it's fading.  
  
Inky darkness curls around his mother's fingers. She's left her coat on her chair with the bag that she takes everywhere, the one with her maps and dice and ink and pens. It almost looks like there's a many-winged lizard rising from the soft dark skin of her forearm and stalking down her hand, nipping at her fingers, shaking its head and raising its wings. She flicks her wrist, and the darkness she's commanding stands at alertness. The shadows in the room seem to bend towards her— by all the science Marcus has learned, it doesn't make sense, but here she is— she is standing at the center of the room with all the shadows at her command, darkness on her skin and crossing her face. Her eyes are scarlet. Marcus feels, right then, a bit scared of his mother. He backs up, and nearly bumps into his grandfather.  
  
Validar smirks. "Move them," he orders. Robin does. She flexes her fingers, brings them together and moves her arm, and the shadows twine around one another like a dance of many shades of black. It's beautiful, but if it weren't making coldness crawl up his back and into his brain like tree branches scratching at windows, Marcus would like it a lot more. He shivers.  
  
"Be not afraid, boy," Validar tells him. "You will do this one day. Perhaps even better than your mother."  
  
Marcus looks up at his grandfather, who's grinning smugly at watching his mother make the shadows dance, as if he'd planned this. Marcus realizes Validar had probably trained Robin himself, so that made sense.  
  
"I don't know about that," Marcus tried to say. "Doesn't dark magic involve, like… blood sacrifices, and stuff?"  
  
Validar scoffs. "Only in Ylissean fairy tales. Here, it is a way of life. Drawing upon darkness is no different from Ylissean magic drawing upon light. They are equal, but opposite. As things are, this is so." Marcus doesn't like the sound of the 'as things are.' It makes Validar sound like he's plotting to bring about the downfall of all that is light in the world.  
  
(Years later, Marcus remembers that exact moment, and laughs. Perhaps inappropriate, but it's either laughing or crying, and he's too dehydrated to cry.)  
  
But aside from the almost cartoonishly foreboding addendum, it's good advice.  
  
The shadows dancing are kind of pretty, he admits to himself. And that's the first step.  
  
"Rajni," Validar says. Robin stands at attention, holding the shadows still. "Enough." And she lets them go, and light returns to normal.  
  
"Oh, oh!" Marcus raises his hand. "Grandfather! If mama can bend the shadows like that, does that mean she can bend light, too? Because shadows don't exist without light, and all? And does that mean she could make herself invisible if she bends it right?"  
  
Validar seems confused. "I suppose?" he admits. "It is… scientifically sound."  
  
Marcus's eyes light up. "Cool!" he says. "Mama, can you do that?"  
  
Robin furrows her eyebrows. She cracks her knuckles and tries again.  
  
_"Dahi'ajana, me'iyoja ayaah,"_ Validar commands. Robin's eyes glow scarlet again. She bends the shadows, the sound of stampeding horses and scratching tree branches in the wind crawling into Marcus's ears. And the light bends around where the shadows are, the seams between them stark. And Robin tries— but something is stopping her. Her hand shakes. Blood trickles from her nose. And still she tries. Validar scowls. Perhaps more of a glower, if Marcus is correct.  
  
"Rajni," Validar says, pointedly. _"Me'iyoja ayaah."_ Robin swallows, and glares at nothing. The air starts to smell of crackling ozone and smoke. Marcus sees lines in his mother's skin, dark leylines just beneath the surface starting from her eyes and spreading out. The room, once cold from the cold stone walls around them, heats up. Marcus watches blood stream from her nose. His ears pop.  
  
"Is it hurting her?" Marcus asks, worried. "If it's hurting her, I don't want to see invisibility. I'll try it myself when I learn how. Alright, grandfather?" But his grandfather ignores him and watches Robin press herself, trying to accomplish something new. He knows she'll try until she fails— and she won't let herself fail.  
  
It seems as if the world holds its breath. Marcus's chest gets tight. He grips his tome. And then he hears something crack. Robin falls to her knees, doubled over on the ground. Everything snaps back to the way it was so fast it makes Marcus's head spin. Robin shakes, blood trickling from her ears. Marcus drops the tome and runs to her side.  
  
"Mama? Mama, are you alright?" he asks, hands on her arm. He looks back to Validar, about to tell him she needs help, but he's just standing there, glaring coldly. And that scares Marcus more than anything he's just seen.  
  
Robin puts a hand to her head and looks past Marcus to Validar. She swallows thickly. Blood from her nose is pooling on her lip and dripping off her chin. She licks her lips.  
  
_"Me'jaa te aayah,"_ she says to him, her tongue clumsy and slow. "Father?"  
  
Validar turns and leaves without even saying a word. For a minute, Marcus thinks she looks no older than he is now— like she's a girl again, on her knees on the cold stone, watching her father leave in cold disappointment after she pushed herself too far.  
  
"Mama?" Marcus asks. He rubs the tears from his eyes stubbornly. Big boys don't cry, his teachers always said. But he's scared and can't stop them.  
  
Robin smiles weakly, and she's back to her normal self. "Hi, baby," she says. "It's alright. I just pushed myself a little too hard this time."  
  
"I'm sorry," he says. "I asked you to try the invisibility thing. But I duh-didn't want you to get hurt like this!"  
  
"No, no, it's not your fault," Robin insists. "I know I can do it. Next time I'll warm up properly. And when you're older and know how to do this kind of magic, I'll teach you. Alright, baby?"  
  
But he's not buying that this time. He tugs on her arm, trying to pull her to her feet. "You need help," he insists. "You need a doctor."  
  
Robin musses his hair. "I'll go to the infirmary," she promises. "Don't worry about me. Don't you have language lessons to go to now, Marcus? Saria's waiting."  
  
Marcus can't believe what he's hearing. He always likes his language lessons with Saria much better than magic training with his grandfather, but is Robin really asking him to leave her like this, let her drag herself to the infirmary while he learns the difference between eyaah and eyhah and conjugates Plegian verbs?  
  
"Was it like this when you were growing up, too?" Marcus asks. "Be-because, if it was, I'm going to go buh-back in time and punch grandfather in the face fuh-for treating you like this. 'Cause it's not fair a-and, and you can't juh-just treat someone like this! It isn't right!"  
  
Robin looks at him mournfully. She smiles, though there's no happiness. She strokes his cheek with her thumb. "You have your father's sense of justice," she murmurs.  
  
"Boy!" Validar says sharply. _"Je'aaya ita han'havah! Ejah!"_  
  
That means 'now,' Marcus has learned. He looks from his mother to his grandfather, who is not the type of man he wants to anger, and runs to his grandfather's side. He pretends not to notice Robin crumple again, her head on the hard floor.  
  
"She will be fine," Validar says, taking his shoulder and ushering him out of the training hall. "She must have gotten soft from lack of training in her days in Ylisse."  
  
"My mother isn't soft," Marcus protests. "She's tougher than you think. I know—"  
  
"Do not talk back to me, boy," Validar says sharply, digging his nails into Marcus's shoulder. Marcus shuts up.  
  
Validar grumbles, cane clicking on the floor. The handle is carved in the shape of a crow. "Rajni possesses magical skill both innate and trained, only enhanced by her blood. If she cannot overcome exertion at this level, perhaps she is too weak." He glances at Marcus as they walk down the hall.  
  
_She's not weak,_ Marcus wants to shout. _She's the strongest person I know, tied with my sister and my aunt Lissa._ "Is Rajni her real name?" Marcus asks instead. "It's pretty."  
  
"I suppose she used a pseudonym among the Ylisseans," Validar admits. "Yes, Rajni is her name."  
  
"I figured Robin wasn't her real first name," Marcus says. "She never talked much about being Plegian to me, at least, but I know Robin's not a Plegian name."  
  
"You know little of your own heritage," Validar says. "A pity."  
  
Marcus shrugs. "That's why I'm learning now, right?"  
  
Validar makes that sound. "We shall see."  
  
And Marcus is too afraid to respond to that.

* * *

  
  
"Alright, Marcus, repeat after me. _En'nah ilo-majrah tioh._ " Saria's voice is patient, even though he's messed it up several times now.  
  
_"En'nah ilo-madgerah teyo,"_ Marcus repeats. "That's… 'he runs quickly,' right?"  
  
"That's what we're trying to say, yes," Saria nods. "But the 'j' sound in ' _majrah_ ' is silent. Ignore the way it's written. If a 'j' sound is in the middle of a word…"  
  
"It sounds like an 'h' instead?" Marcus finishes. "So my mother's name isn't pronounced like Rodge-nee."  
  
"Exactly!" Saria says, beaming. "And fortunately for you, a lot of Plegian words are cognate or similar with common-tongue. Like 'panther' comes from the Plegian _'pana'jerha.'_ "  
  
"Yeah," Marcus says. He fidgets with the pages of the textbook in front of him. "Hey, Saria, how much do you know about my mother?"  
  
Saria frowns. "Not much," she admits. "I didn't even officially meet her until dinner the day you arrived. I know she and my mother were friends a long time ago, and I guess they still are, but… Why do you ask?"  
  
Marcus shrugs. "No reason," he says.  
  
And she raises an eyebrow. " _Errah'thahl._ That means 'I don't believe you one bit.'"  
  
"In Ylisse, we have a term for that," Marcus says. " _Lyocah_. Literally translates to 'bullshit.' Or 'baloney,' if you're around kids."  
  
"Bullshit, then," Saria says. "You're worried about something."  
  
Marcus is a terrible liar, so he's not surprised she can tell. "I guess," he admits. "Grandfather is really awful to my mother. It's like he doesn't love her at all. And that's not how parents are supposed to be, parents are supposed to love you and care about you when you get hurt!"  
  
Saria pricks her ears, as if listening for other people, and leans in closer. "Between you and me, I don't think grandfather loved any of his kids," she says. "My mother said that when he got married a second time and had two more kids, he barely paid any attention to them at all. I don't think he even knows they're gone."  
  
"What happened to them?" Marcus asks.  
  
"I think the boy went to Valm," she recalls, furrowing her eyebrows. "I don't know where the girl went. It's like she dropped off the face of the planet. I think they were both about sixteen when they vanished I wasn't born, so I don't know."  
  
"And their mom?" Marcus asks. Something tells him he doesn't want to know.  
  
"Gone," Saria says. "Mother says his ex-wife Dris was never the type to be in one place for too long. I guess after her kids vanished, there was no reason for her to stay."  
  
"Wow," Marcus says. "Family history is weird."  
  
"Isn't it?" Saria says. "I hear a lot of things about your family, at least the Plegian side, around the castle. Especially since your uncle Rohan brought his kids back to stay because their village got destroyed. He and the high priest argue a whole lot, and bring up things in the past. That's how I know. And my mother is a bad liar to me, too."  
  
"That seems useful," Marcus says. "You hear lots of things."  
  
"People don't think I'm listening because I can't look at them," Saria says. "They think I'm deaf as well as blind. But the joke's on them, because I hear everything."  
  
Marcus thinks for a minute that that means she has super-hearing, and wonders what it'd be like to hear every buzzing fly and whispering servant in the palace. And then he decides that'd be awful and he'd go crazy.  
  
"If you hear anything about my mother," Marcus ventures. "Can you let me know? I'm worried about her.""So is everyone else," Saria says. And then she drops her voice. "But you didn't hear that from me."  
  
Marcus, unsatisfied, nods. "Can you go over the infinitives again? Why aren't they all the same?"  
  
"Because this language hates you, specifically, and wants you to suffer," Saria replies. "Alright, let's start with  'aayaj'— which means what?"

* * *

  
  
At the same time, Rajni sits on the floor of the training hall, looking at the arched ceilings. The afternoon has grown late. Slices of sunlight fall on the stone floor, dust filtering through the sunbeams. The sky may have dimmed, but at least in Plegia, the sun still shines.  
  
There's one fallen across Rajni's lap. She waves a hand through it and watches the dust swirl. Blood from her nose and ears drip onto her shirt. Her head is ringing, but she's used to the pain. Another Rajni would've cried, stifling the noise as she dragged herself to the infirmary, but to that one pain has not yet become a constant companion. She has made her peace with it now— pain, and mistrust, and loneliness, and a hunger that food cannot sate. They were her friends before she found herself a member of the Shepherds, and with most of them dead or otherwise excluding her, she makes herself known to those old friends again.  
  
_Get up,_ she tells herself. _Go to the infirmary, you idiot. You're bleeding out your ears again and that's never gone well for you before, has it?_  
  
_Just let me die,_ some other part of her says. And then the rest of her says _maybe later, we have work to do._ And she hauls herself to her feet and takes her bag and her coat from her chair, and leaves the room with one hand on the wall. She still manages to miss the door at first, but at least she doesn't fall again. Then she _really_ wouldn't be able to get up.  
  
Somebody takes her arm. Numbly, she glances at Rohan, who is staring at the end of the hall and trying not to focus on the fact that he hates her. It'd have a lot more meaning if he hadn't made her life hell since they were in diapers. As it is, she tugs her arm away and looks at him skeptically.  
  
"Get your hands off me," she says. It sounds a lot less forceful than it would if she weren't still gushing blood from her nose.  
  
"What?" Rohan demands. "You're hurt, I'm helping. Am I not allowed to do that?"  
  
Rajni raises an eyebrow.  
  
Rohan sighs. "Yeah, alright, that's fair. Can I at least walk you?"  
  
"I can't stop you," Rajni shrugs. She adjusts her bag on her shoulder. "I'll admit you've surprised me. I didn't think you'd mellow with age."  
  
"Ayeshah must've rubbed off on me," Rohan actually grins a little— Rohah is deeply, deeply flawed as a person, likely in part due to Validar's general failiure at teaching him values other than 'you're worth nothing unless you can hurt things,' but it's actually refreshing to Rajni that he's visibly proud of adopting his wife's values. Rajni has met Ayeshah only once, when they were seventeen or so, and could only marvel at how someone like Ayeshah, who could have been an creature of goodness straight out of pre-Draconist mythology saw anything good in late-adolescent Rohan, who was deep in the trench of self-loathing and destructive behaviors directed at both himself and others. She supposed it took all kinds, and while she had no doubt Rohan could be kind to the people he chose, Rajni still had trouble believing that after everything. _Nobody is one-dimensional, so I can forgive him,_ she tries to tell herself. _Yeah, but the dimension I know is a massive prick, so maybe I don't fucking want to,_ she replies. Rajni hates when this happens.  
  
"How is she?" Rajni asks. She has that thought of insulting him by asking if she finally left him for someone without his problems, but that's mean and uncalled for and unhelpful, in the grand scheme of things. She doesn't want to be hurtful, even if he is a dick.  
  
He swallows. "She's dead," he says. Rajni feels bad for bringing it up, and is about to tell him she's sorry, but he continues, "In the forest fires. Up in the northwest, they got really bad. I got the girls out in time, but she got trapped in a building when the trees started to fall, and… well. I'd imagine that there's not much left of her to bring back, if I were to go back."  
  
"I'm sorry," Rajni says. "I know how much she meant to you."  
  
He shrugs. "Can't think about it now. I have work to do. Anya and Peanut need me."  
  
Rajni nods. "You really have gotten calmer. If we'd tried to talk when we were kids, it'd end in a screaming match."  
  
"The day is young," Rohan chuckles. Rajni knows he's joking, but it sets off several sets of alarms in her head.  
  
_Don't trust him,_ the red voice says. _When could you ever trust him? He's why you're so broken now. People never change— he's just trying to get under your skin again. Push him out before that happens. You are better than this, sweet Rajni._  
  
Rajni swallows. "I can walk the rest of the way by myself," she says to Rohan. "I'll see you later, Rohan." And she walks off at a clip perhaps faster than her screeching head wants, leaving Rohan clueless and confused.  
  
_Never again_ , she repeats to herself. _Do better. Be stronger. Soon he'll see what a mistake it was to hurt me. He'll see, and so will father. They'll both see. They'll_ all _see._  
  
But are those thoughts hers, or that voice in her head that tells her to hurt until she bleeds? The scariest thing is that she can no longer tell.


	6. The Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Eris doesn't react for awhile. She brings a hand up to touch the stinging area, where the rings sliced Rajni's skin. Dark blood, too dark to be human, slowly drips traces her cheek. She touches the blood, looks at it, and then cracks her neck._
> 
> _"Mortal," she says. "You die, now."_
> 
> The creature cares more for Rajni than her own family, and wow, doesn't _that_ say something about her home life?

Late Julius melts into August and the lightning storms start then, whirling through Plegia from the west with its summer squalls that are common this time of year. The astronomy tower catches fire, but the Plegians are prepared for this, and put it out. Rajni, at least, has heard no news of any other towns in Plegia, nor anywhere outside Dahiri, which is enough to make her suspicious. Rohan says no news is good news, but she has never been able to be complicit in what she knows— Rohan calls her greedy for it, but she hungers for information like a starving man hungers for food or like a dying plant needs water. She cannot be content in being told whatever facts have been approved. But Validar has learned his lesson about giving Rajni the knowledge she so craves, and keeps a closer eye on her. She hates it— always has, not being able to question. Under Validar's supervision, it's all short _"yes father"_ answers and obedience without hesitation. He doesn't hit her with the cane as much as he did when she was young, but she still fears the swish before it comes down across her shins, her hands, her back.  
  
August's lightning storms fade into an uneventful September that heralds autumn in more temperate countries, but the arid Plegia doesn't have seasons in that way. Marcus gets better with his language skills and with his dark magic. With Validar's attention shifted between teaching Marcus and dealing with whatever hell Anya manages to raise, Rajni has some occasional free time to hole up in one of the private studies near the quarters she and Marcus are staying in. Sometimes she rereads one of the books she brought with her, or another book from one of the many libraries. Sometimes she runs through her tactics games until she's sure she's rolled every combination on a twenty-sided die there is. Sometimes she writes.  
  
She twirls the ring on her necklace idly, quill pen tapping over the paper. _Lucina,_ is all it says. She should've written this letter several months ago, when she first left. Perhaps Lucina would've torn it to pieces, but she needed the ring. What she did with it was her business— if she tossed it into a fire, or kept it to glare at, either was fine. She would do whatever it is she needs to do to heal. Rajni understands.  
  
A sharp knock at her door. "Rajni. It is time. I hope you are prepared."  
  
"Yes, father," she says. She stands, and swallows. _This is a bad idea,_ part of her says. And she's inclined to agree— not that she has any way to protest. But maybe talking to the beast will yield results her father will be satisfied with. She doesn't want to let it take over, but if her father is telling her to…  
  
She opens the door. Validar waits there expectantly, hands on his cane. Aversa stands next to him, holding a length of rope. _A precaution,_ Rajni repeats to herself. Better to feel like a caged animal for a few minutes than hurt somebody while she's not in control.  
  
They've cleared space in the training hall. There's a chair next to the pedestal with the sundial built into the middle of the room. It's mid-morning. Marcus is with Rohan's daughters, out somewhere doing something that children do like catching bugs or playing make-believe. Rajni wonders how Rohan lets them wander around freely, and then remembers that Rohan's children are not accustommed to being treated as royalty, even if they technically are.  
  
Aversa ties her wrists together, and the end of the length to the sundial in a sturdy knot. "I wish this weren't necessary, love," she murmurs.  
  
"It's alright," Rajni promises. "I don't want to hurt anybody. And you know I could."  
  
She does know that. Aversa purses her lips and looks away, and returns to Validar's side. Rohan folds his arms— the beast doesn't like him any more than Validar, but at least Rohan has demonstrated to her some semblance of regretting his past actions and wanting to make reparations. An actual apology has yet to be said and that's the important part, but Rajni knows her twin and can see his intentions.  
  
Rohan clearly doesn't like this idea. After beating his own evil headmate into submission, he doesn't want to think about it again— it's done, he's fine, and really, isn't that all that matters? But if he's being honest, he doesn't like the idea of being alone in the castle, and the alternative is hanging out with Aversa's slightly-strange blind daughter or tracking down his daughters and Marcus, neither of which he wants to do. Marcus looks like he wants to throttle Rohan at every opportunity, and Saria still makes Rohan's skin crawl, just a bit. Something about her makes her seem like she commands all of space and time and is just waiting for a moment to warp reality to her specifications. Rohan is a normal man with a normal life— he just wants things to make sense.  
  
But his last name is _nir Dahira'mona_ , so that's not going to happen. Maybe it's the hundred-year history of cultist pseudo-Grimleal influenced by ancient texts from long before Grima was called Grima and a heaping helping of self-proclaimed intellectual superiority, what with trying to return the Fell Dragon to an all-powerful mortal host in order to purge the world of nonbelievers and usher in a new era and all, or maybe they're just unlucky. Whatever it is, Rohan is one hundred percent done with it, and would really rather just mind his store with his wife and daughters until all of this blows over. Only it's the apocalypse and his wife is dead, so he can't, and ain't that just a kick in the teeth?  
  
Validar rests his hands on his cane. Does he even need it, or does he need it now because he carried it so often as a younger man? The runes carved into it may be powerless to Rohan's knowledge, but it still makes him uneasy. This whole situation reeks of magic and crap that Rohan was sure he was done with. And yet here he is, watching his twin sister, hands tied, call upon a monster that's supposedly been living in her head since adolescence. Rohan has one, too, but apparently his monster found nothing to feed on, so it just gives bad interior design advice.  
  
The atmosphere in the room shifts. He smells ozone. Two more sets of eyes, all glowing red, have opened in Rajni's cheeks. She— it— snarls, and looks around. It's intelligent, and Rohan isn't sure if he's more scared of the magic involved, or of Validar for making this happen.  
  
The beast looks confused at first. It tugs at the ropes, and once it determines Rajni's muscular strength cannot tear them, it tugs at the anchor point. It snarls and kicks at the sundial, and does not succeed in breaking it, either. And then it scans the room, sharp teeth portruding over Rajni's lip. It focuses its glowing red eyes on Aversa first, trying to look as impartial as she ever did witnessing Validar's general failiure at being a good person, then Rohan, getting more and more uncomfortable by the second, and then Validar.  
  
Validar makes it angry. It lunges forwards, tugging hard at the rope. It growls in frustration and yanks, and only succeeds in falling to the floor. Rajni's head hits the ground with a whunk that makes Aversa flinch where Validar can't see her.  
  
Validar steps forwards and prods her body with his cane. The beast growls, glaring up at him, and gets to its knees. Then it stands, not breaking eye contact. There's swelling on Rajni's forehead, near her hairline.  
  
"This isn't right," Rohan whispers to Aversa. "Do something."  
  
"I can't do anything more than you can," Aversa whispers back.  
  
Rohan grumbles in admittance. He folds his arms, unable to pull his eyes away.  
  
The beast growls. It's surreal that Rajni's throat can make these sounds— the growls sound both human and not at once, like Rajni's voice is tripled. How is it possible? Whatever it is, it makes Rohan's skin crawl with how wrong it was.  
  
_"You,"_ it snarls. "You are the one she calls father."  
  
"I am," Validar replies, impassive. He stands over her with his hands on his cane and a frown etched deep into his wrinkled features. Rajni's knees shake, but the beast glares. The look on her face that the beast causes makes her look stronger than Rohan has ever seen. If he'd seen that when they were younger, he would've thought twice about taking things out on her. She wouldn't have been as easy a target.  
  
"And you are the one who hurts her," the beast says.  
  
"That is none of your concern, beast," Validar replies.  
  
"It _is_ my concern!" the beast roars. It glares, breathing heavily. It tugs at the ropes, straining, beads of sweat rolling down Rajni's face. One of the eyes blinks shut when a drop hits it— they move and blink independently, or in pairs. It's strange to watch.  
  
Validar makes a displeased noise. "Has she told you this?"  
  
"I have seen for myself," the beast says. "You call yourself her father and treat her as a tool, a project. You force her past her limits and leave her alone to recover. You taught her to mistrust, to lie, all to protect herself. It _disgusts_ me." It spits the word disgust, as if it's bitten into a bone. "My Rajni, she deserves better— she was meant to be better. I know she can become a queen, a _goddess_ , if all those who mean her harm were crushed beneath her heel. And she agrees."  
  
"She will do _nothing_ without my knowledge," Validar tries to say, punctuated by him poking Rajni in the center of her chest, but the beast roars and kicks out, striking him in the knee. Validar grunts in pain and falls to the ground, cane skittering out of reach.  
  
The monster growls. "No harm will come to her," it says. "If I have to destroy this world to protect her, then I will— starting with _you_ , you filthy roach of a man."  
  
"Rohan, my cane," Validar orders.  
  
Rohan hesitates. And then Validar turns to glare and says, " _Now_ , boy," and he kicks it back over to Validar's waiting hand.  
  
Using the cane, Validar stands. He breathes heavily— he's not used to having to move himself around so much in his old age. He glares at the beast, who is staring coldly. Rohan can feel the tension, and it makes the hairs on his neck stand on end.  
  
"Fell Dragon, Grima," Validar says. "That is you, is it not?"  
  
The beast growls. "Grima," it repeats. "The entity you tried to summon."

"Is it not you?" Validar repeats. He is unhappy. In the back of the beast's mind, it can feel Rajni flinch. Its lip curls, reavealing new bloody fangs burst through Rajni's gums.

"No," the beast says. "For your purposes, I am not. I am what your cult believes-- I am the embodiment of the sins you have committed. You will know me as... Eris."

Validar didn't want this. He grips his cane more tightly. Although he is the man in charge, the rest of the cult will not be happy to hear that, despite what seemed like success, they've only succeeded in bringing to life a separate entity. Still, he must not be cowed.  
  
"I am the High Priest of Plegia, leader of the Cult of Six-Wings, royal tactician during the Great Siege," Validar says, puffing out his chest like the pinnacle of authoritarian masculinity, somewhat lessened by the too-long priest robes that drape awkwardly over the hunch in his back. "I am your host's father and you— _will_ — obey me."  
  
"I take no orders from a man so small he abuses others to feel powerful," Eris says coldly, speaking through pointed teeth. Validar, displeased at the display of what he percieves as impudence, takes a hand and smacks the creature right across the face— his heavy golden rings sting, and it snaps Rajni's head halfway around. The sound echoes through the training hall. Rohan flinches, out of reflex.  
  
"Do _not_ speak to me in such a way," Validar hisses.  
  
Eris doesn't react for awhile. She brings a hand up to touch the stinging area, where the rings sliced Rajni's skin. Dark blood, too dark to be human, slowly drips traces her cheek. She touches the blood, looks at it, and then cracks her neck.  
  
"Mortal," she says. "You die, _now_."  
  
A sickening crunch. An instant later, Validar is on the floor clutching his gut and the creature is setting its leg down. It tugs at the sundial again. Nothing. Again, harder. Still nothing. Then she braces herself, takes a breath, and pulls with a strength so fierce Rajni's muscles must be screaming. She rips the sundial from the ground and swings it around, narrowly missing Validar. The sundial breaks into chunks of stone, the main body of it embedded in a pillar. Eris tugs the rope off, then focuses on freeing her hands.  
  
She braces them around her knee, and gives a mighty tug hard enough that the loops of rope snap. They were tied snugly, not enough to hurt Rajni but too tight for her to slip out, and now they slice into her skin and friction-burn the edges. Her wrists are raw and Eris does not seem to care.  
  
"No harm will come to her," she snarls, advancing with eyes glowing red in pure hatred. Claws-- wicked, jagged things-- sprout from Rajni's hands. Blood drips down her fingers and spots on the ground. Rohan backs up until his back hits a pillar. Aversa stares, eyes wide in horror, hands over her mouth. Neither of them ever wanted this, but did they have a choice?  
  
"The statements of the Cult of Six-Wings," Eris growls. "The first: uphold the original Grimleal's Seven Values at all costs. And what were they, you pathetic louse? What did the prophetess _Sha'riah_ bring down from the desert storm's heart to free the people?"

Validar coughs. Blood splatters on the stone. He tries to say something in Plegian, blood bubbling past his lips, but the beast kicks him again. He howls. His ribs crumple like a paper bag.  
  
"'Speak not words without truth,'" Eris quotes. "And here you are, _shitting_ out lies like you need a stronger dose of your incontinence potion. You are a _pathetic_ , _shriveled_ waste of the ground upon you walk, and the only mercy I grant you is that your death will be quick." She crouches, and whispers, "But only because your daughter is merciful enough that, _despite_ all the living Hell you put her through for your own selfish, power-mad desires, she doesn't want you to suffer."  
  
Validar watches, life slipping from his eyes, as the claws dive into his field of view. It is the last breath he takes.

* * *

 

Of course it's Aversa who has to clean up her dead master's body. She wouldn't have expected anything different. She looks at Rohan funny when he tries to help because he's never, ever done that before, and he steps off. She dumps him on the pyre out back after slipping the rings off his fingers and tucking them in her pocket. She murmurs a few verses of scripture-- _all die and all are taken into His domain, for all are equal in death._

She kicks some sand onto his lifeless body. __Good riddance.__

* * *

 

 

In the water pump in the garden, Eris washes Validar's blood off her claws. The blood has clotted where Rajni's fingernails were forced out when the claws grew in. Her gums are bloody where the fangs burst through, covering her canines. They click when the beast moves her jaw, and poke past her lips. They are still new, coated in blood, Rajni's gums tender and ragged from the sudden entry. They ache when Eris breathes. Although Eris has been a part of Rajni since her birth and has been actively shaping her life throughout most of it, she has never manifested so intensely before-- Rajni had never let her.

It had taken a lot of self-control. Since she was thirteen, Eris had been pushing, trying to persuade Rajni into yielding some control in return for power she so craved. And only now, nineteen years later, Eris is in control.

Eris flexes her fingers beneath the stream. Dark blood thins in the water and washes into the drain below. Eris's claws are pointed but still soft and vestigal-- she knows that in time, with exposure to the air, they will harden into weapons in their own right. For now, she waits.

Rajni is tired. Holding the beast back for so long has taken a toll on her mind. Still, Eris feels a tickle in the back of her mind that tells her Rajni is not out yet.

 _I gave you what you wanted,_ Rajni says. _Being in full control is harder than vying for it, isn't it?_

"This form is fragile," Eris admits, her fangs aching as air moves past them. "You feel pain. In high amounts it stops you from moving. And yet you persist."

 _Humans are quite powerful,_ Rajni replies. _Many out there feel pain but refuse to let it cow them. Others embrace it, feel it whole and consummate, and let it make them stronger._

"Is that what it did for you?" Eris asks. "You have felt a great deal of pain in your lifetime, yet still you are here."

 _Don't deny your own influence,_ Rajni says. W _ere it not for you, I'd likely have died before adolescence. I suppose I should thank you for that, but frankly, I don't want to. If we're speaking honestly, I would rather be dead than be my father's puppet-- like it or not, that is what you've made me._

Eris feels something at that-- she had never intended for this to be the case. "All I wanted was to help you," she says. "It is unfair and cruel the way those who claim to be your family treat you. With me, you could rule the world!"

I don't want to rule the world, Rajni says.

That is, perhaps, the strangest thing Eris has heard.

Eris's ear twitches. There are footsteps coming through the courtyard. She turns. It's Marcus-- she furrows her eyebrows and stares at him quizzically. Marcus, sensing that this is not his mother, pauses. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt. The Plegia-made flaxen fabric is a bit too big for him, and it's faded from time sitting in a trunk. Rajni knows that most of what he wears now is Rohan's old clothes, because they can't have the prince wearing _Ylissean_ clothing but nobody is around to make him new things. He twists the hem in his little hand.

He swallows. "Mother?" he ventures.

"She is... in here," Eris admits. "It is unlikely, child, that she'll return for quite some time."

"Oh." Marcus lets his hand drop. "Who are you, then, if you're not my mother?"

"I am Eris," Eris says. "You are the prince. Her son, correct?"

Marcus nods.

"I know quite a bit about you," Eris tells him. She pauses. "Rajni wishes it did not have to be this way."

Marcus lowers his head. "So do I," he murmurs. He turns and walks away, and for the first time, Eris feels her heart ache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rest in fucking pieces, validar. you were an asshole and legit nobody will miss you. real shame you look like a racial stereotype


	7. The Letter from Valm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I only pray you recieve this letter._
> 
> _(The edges of the letter are charred, but there are bloody fingerprints aligning with the creases on the paper, where its writer was clutching it in desperation.)_
> 
> Five months of the apocalypse and the world still hasn't finished ending.

_To Exalt Lissa, should she be alive, or Exalt Lucina, should the previous be dead, and otherwise, two whom it may concern:_  
  
_Naga's Voice has fallen. I write this now with what is perhaps my last breath; monsters this very minute are scouring the Mila Shrine and it is soon they will discover where I hide. Horrible, beastly things, these Risen, though I can no longer tell who among the enemies are dead and who are alive. All are equally monstrous._  
  
_Should I finish this letter and should you recieve it, my son will have taken it and sent it when he reaches the nearest post office. He and his sister, gods protect them, should arrive at Ylisstol as soon as time allows. If they do not, assume they are dead. I pray this will not be the case. But by the time you read this letter, I will have told them what they are to do. I have no doubts they will make me proud._  
  
_Ancient scrolls in Chon'sin have told of what will happen should Naga fall. They say the sky will darken as if the sun no longer can bear shining as bright; the sky shall rain ice and the trees shall be engulfed in flames; thunder will bear down from the sky with nothing to restrain it; the last energy flowing through Naga's many leylines will fade and halt altogether; plague and blight will spead through the people left and kill thousands. We surviving mortals may only pray for a quick end, as 'tis nothing we can do._  
  
_With Naga's energy gone, so too will Grima's— this is how the balance of Fell and Exalted magic has kept the world at peace for millennia. After the dark leylines of Grima's energy run amock without Naga's to balance them, so too shall they fade. It will not rain again. The wind will not blow, the rivers will not run, the ocean tides will no longer move. There will be a stillness that festers and rots the world in stagnation as all that moves and grows in the world halts. 'Tis a slow death._  
  
_My dear friend Lissa, I pray that fear has not taken you— though the battle with Plegia took your brother and many of our friends, and with all I have said, 'tis understandable if you, too, are afraid. Now is a time where hopelessness is truly the way things will be. 'Twas it fate that brought this upon our world? I know not, but aye, if it is so, I no longer know what to think of fate and its limitless cruelty._  
  
_My lady Tiki is dead, and I fear I am next. I still pray for the safety of my children, our children, that they will make it safely to Ylisstol. They may arrive by air or by road; 'tis dependent on whether they arrive before brumation season begins. Marti is terribly difficult during the winter._  
  
_I hear the monsters now. I shall die with dignity._  
  
_I only pray you recieve this letter._  
  
_Your friend,_  
_Empress of Chon'sin and appointed guardian of Naga's Voice_  
_Say'ri_  
  
(31st Mia 1430)  
  
(The edges of the letter are charred, but there are bloody fingerprints aligning with the creases on the paper, where its writer was clutching it in desperation.)

* * *

  
  
Lucina isn't the best with a bow yet, but she likes to think she's getting better.  
  
It's been six months since she got the news that her father was dead, six months since her brother's eye showed the Mark of Grima, six months since she shouted at her mother for confirming the nightmare vision she had of the worst kind of betrayal and six months since that same mother left with her brother for parts unknown. Lucina has tried to punch through, cry out, talk about, and sleep away the fallout on the ordeal that was that half-week, and only been successful in ushering in a feeling of fuzziness in her core that won't go away no matter how much hard she hits the dummies and targets when she practices.  
  
Lissa doesn't want her outside the Garrison because it's unsafe, but Lucina is pretty sure she's going to suffocate and die of simple boredom if she can't ever leave. So when the hunters left for meat, she snuck out behind the group with her bow and an old shortsword from the armory, a hood over her head just in case— but she has faith in her ability to sneak. (She's not half-bad, but not good enough to hunt anything that isn't deaf as a post.)  
  
But it's November and the Garrison needs more food, so Lucina tries her hardest. She sneaks through the forest, rough fabric of her hood brushing her cheek, and spies her target— a boar, snuffling and gnawing on a tree root. She's not going to be able to drag it back, but the hunters can if she tells them where it is. Plus she's too loud for the rabbits and can't find any deer, and anything bigger would kill her. So boars it is.  
  
She crouches, one knee on the carpet of dry leaves and pine needles. She nocks the arrow, draws back her shortbow, shuts one eye and lines up her shot.  
  
Robin taught her how to shoot. When Lucina was about nine or ten and hadn't hit her growth spurt yet, when her hair was cut short and scruffy despite her nursemaid's best efforts to keep it trimmed (Lucina remembered poor old Margaret, who'd been a nurse since her father was a boy and intended to go on caring for the royal children for as long as she lived) and when she had missing teeth, running around the castle with a wooden sword and shield she'd made herself. She always got especially excited after her history lessons, when she'd pretend she was a gallant knight on the battlefield cutting down enemy Plegians about to bring harm to Ylisse. It'd been just a game at the time.  
  
When Robin practiced with her bow and arrows, she set up targets in the yard. She drew and shot so gracefully, with such focus, Lucina could swear she was watching poetry. It was so fluid, it reminded her of a dance— nock, draw, aim, shoot, nock, draw, aim, shoot. She taught Lucina with a little training bow made for the youngest and smallest scouts-in-training, using arrows tipped with marbles so she wouldn't hurt herself by accident. She watched Robin carefully first, then Robin set one hand on her shoulder and the other on her wrist, and guided her as she nocked the arrow, drew the bow back, aimed it at the target, and shot it. And she missed quite often, but she got the hang of the motions, and when she hit the target just south of one of Robin's arrows, she was so excited! And Robin had kissed her forehead and told her how proud she was. And it made something in Lucina glow.  
  
When Robin shot, she always nocked and drew in a fluid motion. And just before she shot, she kissed the shaft of the arrow— for luck, she said when Lucina asked. So the arrow will know for whom it flies.  
  
It seemed silly at the time, but Lucina does it now. And some part of her that still loves her mother, despite how much she wants to hate her, prays, gods, mother, I hope your trick works.  
  
And it does. The arrow flies with nary a whistle through the air, and thunks solidly in the boar's eye socket. The boar reels, squeeing, hooves thumping on the ground. Lucina's chance.  
  
She pounces, shortsword out. The boar squeals and snarls. Lucina swipes— a miss. She swipes again, sinking the blade into the boar's throat. The fight ends.  
  
With that done, she yanks her arrow out of the boar's head and wipes it on her trousers. She tugs her shortsword free and sheaths it, and pulls out her map. She marks it with a pencil.  
  
There's a rustle from the forest. She's not far from a path, she's pretty sure, but it's unusual to hear— even if it's another one of the hunters, they're not very good if they make a sound that loud. She turns, slowly pulling an arrow from her quiver and nocking it. But she doesn't draw, not yet. Instead she creeps towards the sound— like two sets of footsteps shuffling on the gravel path. It's slow, and she thinks at first that perhaps it's a couple of the undead that Lissa talks about. She can take a pair of those down, probably.  
  
Probably.  
  
She tries, very hard, to be sneaky and quiet, a hunter on the prowl. But that's not the way things work out, because Lucina trips over her too-big feet and rolls onto the path, gripping her bow for dear life. She lands face-down and dizzy, and with a soft " _ouch_."  
  
Alright, mild setback. But she gets to her feet and draws her arrow again, undeterred by the unplanned spill. She's about to let it loose when she sees who she's aiming at— is that two kids?  
  
She lowers her bow and stares, despite that she knows staring is rude. There's two kids on the path, both about her age, though the boy is older and taller. They look Valmese, though Lucina hasn't met very many Valmese people so she may be incorrect, and both have scattered scales and pointy ears. The boy is tall and has green scales, and he's bundled in a shapeless wool traveling coat. He has a leather-wrapped longbow and a quiver with a few scavenged arrows on his back, and a curved sword at his hip. He sets one hand on the hilt just in case.  
  
The younger one, the girl (his sister, maybe), leans on him like she's falling asleep. Her pointed ears, covered in tiny lavender scales, are drooping. She shakes out her mane of dark hair and lifts a hand to rub her eyes, looking groggily at Lucina. Grumbling something foreign, she digs a twisted old dagger out from the inside pocket of her battered coat and takes a bite. She looks like she'd rather be sleeping— if she's a Manakete, it makes sense, because brumation has started and Nah has been sleeping fifteen hours a day in a nest of miscellaneous quilts, old curtains, and unused coats. Lucina has learned a lot about brumation since October.  
  
Lucina puts her bow away. "I'm not going to hurt you," she says, holding out her hands. "Are you alright? It's not safe to travel anymore, I'm told."  
  
The boy grunts, looking at the girl.  
  
"Oh, come on, _you_ talk to her," his sister grumbles. "I'm _tired_. Let me sleep."  
  
He raises an eyebrow. The girl groans. She yawns and cracks her neck, ears twitching. "Alright, fine. Whatever. Salutations, or… whatever it is you say. I'm Marti, this is my brother Ke'tu. We're looking for a place called the Shepherd's Garrison?"  
  
"Oh!" Lucina knows what she's talking about— _duh_. "That's not far from here. The hunters are about to go back, and their camp is just a bit further along the trail, where the trail joins with the main road."  
  
"Oh, finally, actual directions," Marti sighs in relief. "I thought we'd been walking in circles for ages. 'Tis awfully winding, this trail. And my idiot brother didn't think to ask for directions."  
  
"And whom was I to ask, _Marti?"_ her brother finally says. "The hordes of shambling undead? The magisters who summon them? The trees?"  
  
Marti mimics what he said in a high-pitched voice, rolling her eyes. "All I am saying, _Ke'tu_ , if we _died_ out here in the ass-end of Ylisse looking for somewhere that _may_ not even exist, I'd blame you for the rest of eternity."  
  
"'Twould be an improvement over this," Ke'tu mutters. Marti glares.  
  
"Anyway," Marti decides, rolling her shoulders beneath the giant coat. "Thank you for the directions, miss. We'll take it from here."  
  
"Oh, I can take you there if you like," Lucina offers. "It's dangerous out here. My aunt says I'm not supposed to be out here at all, but— well, if I found two more allies, I don't think she'll mind. She's very kind."  
  
"Unless your aunt is the Exalt of Ylisse, I'm afraid we don't have enough time to meet with people," Marti apologizes. "Perhaps later. I'm certain your aunt, whoever she may be, is lovely."  
  
Lucina almost wants to laugh. "My aunt is the Exalt," she says. "I'm Lucina. Pleased to meet you." She takes the two steps forwards and offers Marti her hand. Marti looks at it, confused, and gives a half-bow in response.  
  
"Right, well, your highness," Marti says. "I am honored you'd be so kind, but we wouldn't want to trouble you."  
  
"It's no trouble at all," Lucina promises. "Come on. She's going to want to meet you if you came all the way here. And the ceilings may be caving in some places, but there's warm food and we have space for whoever needs it. You'd be welcomed."  
  
Marti whispers something in some other language to Ke'tu. Ke'tu whispers something back. They have a brief argument before Ke'tu bows to her, hands at his sides, and looks back to Marti, who has clasped her scaly hands together.  
  
"Well then," she decides. "Who are we to argue, your highness? Please, lead the way."  
  
Feeling a sense of victory that is somewhat stifled by the fact that they're probably saying so out of respect for her title, she nonetheless grins and leads them down the path towards the Garrison. She hands the lead hunter her map before doing so— she is not about to question why nobody asked about the two strange children she's leading.  
  
One of the other hunters watches the princess go. "Sir," he says to Scout Anson. "Shouldn't we tell her Grace that the princess snuck out to hunt?"  
  
"Oh, the Exalt already knows," Scout Anson replies. "She's letting the princess have this instance of rebellion. And there's no harm in extra hands."


	8. The Promise Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The last page of the sketchbook is a self-portrait, more recent than the rest of the drawings, and it comes with a note:_
> 
> _Lucina,_  
>  Never lose your spark.
> 
> _Lucina wants to throw the book across the room._
> 
> Love finds a way, even in the midst of fear.

November days melt into weeks and soon turn into a lackluster December. Lucina's hands are pink and stiff in the cold of the new winter season, which only feels like winter at all because there's always frost on all the windows and icicles made of dew form on the edges of the roofs. Severa has stopped climbing the frozen bricks because it's just too damned cold and her mittens don't provide enough protection from the freezing air, and sticks to hiding in the rafters and stealing bits of gingerbread from the kitchens. But nobody old enough to lift a weapon has stopped training except for Marti and Nah, and Lucina's assured they'll make it up as soon as the weather warms up.  
  
She pries her hands from her bow to crack her knuckles and rub her hands together. She flexes the wrist of her bow-hand, a strip of skin showing itself between the wrist end of her knit half-gloves and the sleeve of her coat. It's too small, but she can't ask for another. When it gets really small, she'll put it in the storeroom of hand-me-downs and find one a bit big on her to wear as she grows.  
  
At the target next to her, arrows thunk one after another into the center ring. Lucina is almost certain that Noire is showing off at this point, but her aim is superb in all respects, so she can't even be mad.  
  
"You'll run out of targets at this rate, hitting the center like that," Lucina says to her. "It's amazing, though."  
  
Noire lowers her bow and sniffs a string of snot back into her red nose. "You bead it?" she mumbles hopefully, unable to talk through her stuffed-up nose. "Th-thags…"  
  
"Of course I mean it," Lucina promises. "You have a great eye."  
  
Noire blushes and mumbles something, lowering her head. But she's grinning, so Lucina takes that as a good sign.  
  
Lucina takes aim with her bow again. She kisses the arrow before letting it fly— Noire watches this time, curious. She tugs at her thick wool hood, pulled up over her ears, and sniffs. She wipes her nose on the sleeve of her too-big coat.  
  
The arrow lands south of where Lucina wants it to. She scowls, and pulls another from the quiver.  
  
"Why'd you kiss it?" Noire asks. "The arrow."  
  
Lucina looks at the arrow in her hand, and shrugs. "So it'll know who it's flying for," Lucina says.  
  
"But arrows cad't thigk," Noire replies. "How d'you kdow i-it'l do what you ask?"  
  
"I don't," Lucina admits. "But it's never failed me before."  
  
"Ohh." Noire takes that into consideration. "Should I do that?"  
  
"If you want to," Lucina shrugs. "You don't have to if you think it's dumb or whatever. It's just something I do."  
  
Noire nods, and picks up her bow. She sniffs and wipes her nose again before shooting her next arrow. Lucina's about to pick another when she realizes her quiver is empty, so she pulls her arrows out of the target. She stacks them, careful of the pointed heads, and is about to put them back in her quiver when she notices Ke'tu in the fenced-off practice arena, stretching his arms over his head and rubbing his hands together as if he's about to start practicing.  
  
"You can have my arrows, Noire," she says. "I'm gonna go say hi to Ke'tu."  
  
"Oh, okay," Noire says quietly, taking the arrows in her little arms. She probably says goodbye, but Lucina unstrings her bow and jogs over to the training arena, breath steaming in the chilly air.  
  
Ke'tu stares evenly at the training dummy on the other end of the arena. He puts his thumb and finger around the scabbard of the sword and draws it out without drawing the blade, making a slow 'shhhhh' noise with his mouth. He twirls his sword around his hand in a way that had to have been practiced, and holds it in one hand.  
  
He narrows his eyes at the wooden dummy. Someone, probably Cynthia, has taken a moth-eaten scarf and hat that'd go to the rags otherwise and put them on the dummy, for reasons only discernible to her.  
  
"So we meet again," he murmurs, dropping his voice. He hasn't noticed Lucina leaning on the fence. "To think I once called you my family, uncle." He spits the word 'uncle' like it's a curse.  
  
He twirls his sword again, drops it, mutters a Valmese curse, and picks it up once more. "I'm no longer the little boy you knew," he says. "I am a _man_ now. And more of a man than you ever were!" He thumps on his chest for emphasis.  
  
"Who are you talking to?" Lucina asks. "I mean, I heard you say 'uncle,' so probably your uncle, but why are you fighting him?"  
  
Ke'tu jumps, looking at Lucina in surprise. His sword falls out of his hands and lands with a thud on the ground. Lucina's question still stands, so she sits on the fence with her ankles crossed, swinging her legs gently.  
  
"H-he betrayed my mother," Ke'tu explains. "I'm training for when I can face him one day."  
  
"That's a good thing to do," Lucina decides. "I'm training to avenge my father because my mother murdered him. We should train together, it'll go faster that way."  
  
Ke'tu blinks. "Forgive me, milord, but I prefer to train alone."  
  
He turns away, but Lucina isn't satisfied. She hops off the fence and runs in front of him, folding her arms. "Have you ever trained with other people?" she demands. "It's a very different experience, I promise. You can learn from your training partner and it's a lot of fun, even if you're training for revenge. I usually train with Kjelle, but she has a cold, so."  
  
He sighs. Lucina looks up at him, a hand on her hip.  
  
"Maybe I'm not as old as you, but I know how to fight," she says. "Come on. Fight me, right now."  
  
"What?" Ke'tu frowns at her.  
  
"Fight me!" Lucina demands. She tosses her bow aside and balls up her fists. "Are you scared I'll beat you? Because I will! I'll fight you and win!"  
  
Ke'tu likes to think he's mature for his ripe old age of fourteen. But he's not, no matter how stoic and silent he is and how much he pretends to be brooding upon the importance of life when he's really wondering how many dumplings he can shove into his mouth all at once. (His record is four.) So he sighs, and puts his sword aside, and says, "Fine. I will fight you, milord."  
  
Lucina's face lights up. Still grinning, she lunges forwards and punches Ke'tu in the stomach hard enough and fast enought that Ke'tu goes _hurf_ and steps backwards. Lucina bounces on the balls of her feet, cheeks red in the winter air, and Ke'tu thinks, _what the hell._  
  
He swings. Lucina ducks under it and aims for his ribs again— but this time he knows it's coming. He catches her wrist and flips her over his shoulder with very little effort, and drops her on her back on the ground. She wheezes for a second, but jumps back to her feet and tries again. She's tenacious, Ke'tu will admit, but determination will only get her so far.  
  
She gets another good hit to Ke'tu's sternum before Ke'tu flips her again. This time he puts a hand on her stomach, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough she can't wriggle out. She lets out a huff of breath that steams in the air, and says, "Best two out of three?"  
  
Ke'tu rolls his eyes and helps her up. "Best not."  
  
"Maybe another time, then!" Lucina decides. "When it's warmer, so I don't have this big coat slowing me down."  
  
"Very well," Ke'tu admits. "Later, then."  
  
"That was fun, though!" Lucina says. "Can you teach me how to do that flip thing?"  
  
Ke'tu know she honestly wants to learn and better herself, but he wants to rub his temples and tell her to go away. Despite her technically being his liege now, she's reminding him more by the second of Marti, except she's not related to him so he can't just say no.  
  
"At a later date," Ke'tu promises. "Perhaps you ought to go inside, milord. Twouldn't do for you to fall ill." Really he just wants her to go somewhere else so he can pretend to duel his uncle in peace, complete with his own narration and sound effects (he needs to perfect his finishing move, _Dragonfist Strikedown Ultimate_ , and he can't do that if anyone is watching.)  
  
Lucina rolls her eyes. "Fine," she sighs. "It's dinner soon anyway. You should eat with me and my friends! Mophead and Gerome are cool, and mealtime is more fun if you're not alone anyway."  
  
"I… will consider it," Ke'tu decides. "Thank you, milord."  
  
"You don't have to call me that," Lucina tells him. "You can call me Lucina. Everybody else does."  
  
Ke'tu will not. "Duly noted, milord," he says.  
  
Lucina sighs. She waves to him before picking up her bow and hanging it on the rack, and then running inside. Ke'tu really hopes that's the last interruption.  
  
He picks up his sword again. And as his luck would have it, there's another interruption.  
  
A boy, this time. He's taller than Ke'tu, but not by much, but squishier and wider by a large margin. He has a little cloth-wrapped parcel in a basket in his big mittened hands, and a kind-looking face flushed in the cold. Messy locks of light brown hair stick out from underneath his lumpy knit hat. He's smiling. Ke'tu doesn't smile back.  
  
"Hey," the boy says. His voice is weak and quiet. He avoids direct eye contact. "Y-you're, ah, Ke'tu, right?"  
  
Ke'tu grunts affirmation, and raises an eyebrow. "Who are you?"  
  
"Oh, I'm, uh," the boy swallows. "Teddy. I-it's short for Theodore, not Tederick, not like my cousin Severa likes to say. It really is Theodore, I promise. B-but I like being called Teddy instead of Theo because, well, uh— well, I think it fits me better, frankly. I guess you don't have any nickname problems like that, huh? Unless, I mean— n-nevermind. Please just forget I can talk."  
  
Ke'tu doesn't know how to respond to that. Marti calls him kitty sometimes, but is that really a nickname?  
  
"Anyway!" Teddy says, sucking in a breath and offering the basket to Ke'tu. "I-I saw you were out here in the cold, training, a-and I admire that, really. So I baked you a loaf of bread, to keep your energy up, a-and… stuff. Th-there's cranberries in it, a-and it's probably still warm. But what do I know about how much energy you need? I'm not made for combat. Father says I should work out more, you know, train to use a lance so I can help the soldiers fight the Risen, b-but the idea of killing anything makes me queasy. B-but it'd make him happy, so…" Teddy sighs. "I'm talking too much, aren't I?"  
  
"No," Ke'tu says bluntly, taking the basket.  
  
"That's good!" Teddy laughs nervously. "I don't want to make a bad impression. See, I, uh— well, I think we could be friends. B-because you never know unless you try, right?"  
  
"Right," Ke'tu agrees. "I recognize you. You were the one putting things in the stew pot last Friday before they rolled it out."  
  
Teddy flushes right to his ears. "You saw that?" he mumbles. "Oh, man. Don't tell head cook Bridgette, alright? She'd stop letting me make the gingerbread, and I really like making the gingerbread!"  
  
"It likely made the stew better," Ke'tu says. "I know little about cooking, or baking. What is ginger-bread?"  
  
Teddy lights up. "It's like a cookie, but—" He stops himself seeing the confused look on Ke'tu's face. "You know what! I'll bake some for you, all kinds of treats, and bring them to you after dinner! I-is that okay?"  
  
Ke'tu nods. He wonders why Teddy is so nervous— is this a Ylissean thing, being nervous and self-conscious talking to people? Ke'tu has never had a problem with it. He just looks at their nose and nods or shakes his head, or grunts where appropriate. It's not that he doesn't like to talk, but he never sees anything to say. Sometimes it's better to listen. Perhaps Teddy is afraid of him?  
  
"You need not be nervous around me," Ke'tu says. "I won't harm you."  
  
"I know, it's just—" Teddy sighs, and hangs his head. "I get nervous and talk to much, and then I get nervous that I'm talking too much, and then— well, you get the idea. Father says I inherited mother's anxious tongue. And apparently her two left feet, too."  
  
"How is that possible?" Ke'tu wonders. "I did not know it was possible to have any feet but one left and one right."  
  
"Oh, it's just an expression," Teddy says quickly. "I don't literally have two left feet— gosh, finding shoes would be a nightmare. It just means I trip a lot and can never get a handle on where I am in relation to things like stairs or doorways. And I drop stuff."  
  
"Can you not train yourself to… not do that?" Ke'tu asks. That's concerning— not having a solid control over where one is in space? Ke'tu can't even imagine.  
Teddy sighs. "Maybe someday," he shrugs. "'Til then, I'm just me— clumsy, jittery me."  
  
"I don't mind clumsy or jittery," Ke'tu finds himself saying.  
  
"You don't?" Teddy looks at him in surprise. Ke'tu shakes his head, and Teddy grins in relief.  
  
"That's good!" he says, delighted, and Ke'tu feels something go through his chest— a thought that he would, perhaps, not mind seeing Teddy happy like that in the future. Perhaps he'll endeavor to make him happy, Ke'tu thinks. Because oh no, he's cute, and Ke'tu may have agreed to recieving baked goods from him. He'll have to do something in return now.  
  
Ke'tu feels heat rise to the tips of his pointed ears— ridiculous, he says, because he's a reptile and they're not warm-blooded. But he is only half-Manakete, so perhaps it's just something he can do? Whatever. He has more human than his sister does, because he doesn't feel the need to eat metal, transform into a gigantic lizard, or brumate through the winter. Do lizards even blush?  
  
He swallows. "Y-yes, well," he says, clearing his throat. "I suppose I'll— see you after dinner. With the… gingerbread."  
  
"I'll bring some cookies while I'm at it," Teddy muses. "I'm sure the head cook will let me bake a batch— for the youngsters, you know. And maybe I'll put in requests for brownies, or pies, or a cake, or… scones, maybe? So much baking, so little time!"  
  
"I look forward to it, truly," Ke'tu promises. "I have never eaten a cookie before. I suppose the art of baking never quite caught on in Chon'sin."  
  
"All the more reason for me to set some aside for you!" Teddy decides. "Well, that's that— You enjoy the bread, alright? A-and if you like it, I'll bake you more!"  
  
"I believe I would like that," Ke'tu says. He offers Teddy a smile, and tries to gauge Teddy's reaction. But Teddy only flushes further and clears his throat. Now what does that mean?  
  
"I'll, um, see you later, alright?" Teddy says, wringing his hands. "And it's… Ke'tu. That's how you pronounce it?"  
  
Ke'tu grunts his affirmation. "See you later," he repeats. "Theodore."  
  
Teddy clears his throat and nods. Somewhat awkwardly, he sticks his hands in the pockets of his coat and turns away, walking in the opposite direction. He turns back a few times, as if deciding whether or not he should wave, but ends up deciding not to.  
  
Ke'tu leans against the fence and unwraps the cranberry bread. He takes a chunk and bites into it— it's still warm. He lets himself smile.  
  
Perhaps, he thinks, life here won't be as much of a chore as he thought it would be.

* * *

  
  
It was bitterly cold in the air above the capitol, but it felt like it was only so cold out of obligation for the season and altitude. Plegia was at least drier, the pegasus-mounted courier thinks, clutching his nearly-empty mailbag closer to his chest. He'd much rather be somewhere warmer, like inside, but a courier's work is never done.  
  
Riding on another pegasus in front of him, his brother waves. He points to the ground, then moves his hand again. The courier nods, and the both of them turn downwards. Soon the Shepherd's Garrison in Ylisstol comes into view through the winter fog, and they touch down in the yard behind the mail tower.  
  
He pulls off his hat and shakes the frost out of his hair. His brother jumps off his pegasus, a brawny stallion named Moogle, and starts unbuckling the supply pouches on the sides and handing them to the aides who ran up to collect them, and stablehands who gently take Moogle's reins and lead him to the feeding station. The courier does the same.  
  
He hands the leader the letters from his mailbag. The leader looks them over and nods. He says something.  
  
The courier's brother comes up next to him and claps him on the shoulder. "We've got today's shipment of essentials from Ferox," the younger boy says. "A caravan is on the way. And there's some reports from the border in there for her Grace the Exalt. And a few personal letters."  
  
"Thank you both," the Garrison postmaster says. "I salute your service to the postal system. We have a few things to be delivered to east and west Ferox— could one of you boys take one, and so fourth?"  
  
"Sorry, Aggie and I do deliveries together or not at all," the boy declines, politely. But he grins, a beam of sunshine even on the cold day. "But we'll do it. Can you sign for the delivery?"  
  
Aggie, wordlessly, gives him the delivery sheet and a pencil. The postmaster scratches his signature and the date and gives them back. Aggie sticks them in his pocket.  
  
' _Choco needs to rest, Phobos,'_ Aggie says to his brother, with hand signals in place of words. _'We won't be getting back to uncle Pibs in time for dinner, it seems.'_  
  
_'Aw, darn,'_ Phobos replies. _'Should we mail him? Oh, wait—_ we're _the mail. Let's just load up and deliver once the boys are done refueling.'_  
  
Aggie nods. He pets his pegasus gently and tries not to think about having to be up in the cold air again— though he has to wonder what was in that heavy letter he and Phobos picked up in Plegia.

* * *

  
  
Lucina's not expecting a letter. But when Lissa hands her a flat package sealed with a plain purple drop of wax, something cold settles in the pit of her stomach. She knows who it's from.  
  
She opens it in the bunk she shares with Kjelle after dinner, sitting on the low bedframe with her shoes tossed carelessly around the foot of the bed and her coat hanging on a hook near the door. Her sword and bow are on the little table next to Kjelle's favorite lance, leaning next to the mirror, and her too-big armor at the foot of the other bed crammed into the small space. She rips the paper covering the package open after reading her name, Lucina, on the front in her mother's elegant script.  
  
There are two books inside, and a folded piece of paper. One looks handmade, its binding stitched together with twine, and its cover reads _'A Crash Course in Plegian Language.'_ The second is bound with purple leather with brass around the corners, and a little clasp.  
  
She flips through _'A Crash Course in Plegian Language'_ first. It's, as it says on the cover, a guide to Plegian phrases and the alphabet, with fairly simple explanations that are easy to understand. Her mother wrote it, specifically for her, Lucina realizes, looking at the tiny illustrations of dragons and knights and heroes decorating the pages and demonstrating the language conventions. Part of her wants to crumple the little book in her hands and throw it into the fire, but although she tries, she can't make herself do it. She opens the drawer in her nightstand and gently puts it in there, along with the hairbrush and miscellaneous bits of other things she hasn't looked at in ages.  
  
The second book, she realizes upon opening it, is her mother's sketchbook. Every page is filled with illustrations of everyday objects or pictures of the Shepherds— Lucina recognizes her father, and her aunts, and a few of her friends' parents. It's hard to imagine her tough-as-nails aunt Lissa wearing twintails and pulling pranks, but that's what the words next to a drawing of a much younger Lissa holding a frog say. Later in the book, she sees pictures of herself as a baby and a small child, and pictures of tiny little Marcus. She traces one illustration of herself at six years old with four missing teeth gently, as if she doesn't want to disturb the little girl in the drawing.  
  
The last page of the sketchbook is a self-portrait, more recent than the rest of the drawings, and it comes with a note:  
  
_Lucina,_  
_Never lose your spark._  
  
Lucina wants to throw the book across the room. She feels ill— who is Robin to send her this, like she never murdered Chrom and like all of Lucina's very existence isn't to uphold an elaborate lie? But she finds she can't be angry for long, not really, because it makes her feel a heavy, sinking sadness resting on her chest. She wants to lie down and not get out of bed for a long while, not caring about the world going on outside her door. Her stomach aches.  
  
She swallows hard and opens the letter. A ring falls out— Lucina recognizes it. Robin usually wore it on her forefinger of her right hand, Lucina remembers. It came from Plegia, and had Plegian script engraved in its band, but Lucina only knows it says something about a panther and a wolf, and that sacrifice strengthens love, or something. She kind of finds it bullshit, because why does there need to be a sacrifice to strengthen love? What kind of love is it if it requires sacrifice?  
  
Lucina slips it onto the forefinger on her right hand. It's too big, so she sets it on her nightstand next to the sketchbook and picks up the letter.  
  
The letter itself is short. But Lucina can't focus on reading it because her eyes are filling with tears and she doesn't understand why, because she's tried so hard to deny that Robin was ever her mother if it was all a lie— except in that moment it's so, so clear to her that it wasn't and Robin loved her, and Lucina feels the sting of betrayal all over again. So she curls up on her bed and tries to keep her tears silent, so that nobody will ever know.


	9. Let Them Be Young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They take three pieces of gingerbead from the basket in the dining hall. Teddy has put them in a basket on top of a tea towel to prevent crumbs from getting in the weaving. He smiles when he sees them enjoying their gingerbread— this, he thinks, is why he bakes, even if his father would rather see him hold a shield or spear. He can't make people happy by fighting, no matter how hard he tries._
> 
> Gingerbread baked with love warms the heart as much as it warms the hands. (This is why you wait for them to cool before eating them, lest the love burn your tongue.)

It's a morning in the beginning of December. The smells of baking gingerbread waft through the kitchen rafters, and Teddy peers into the oven to check if the sheets are done yet. He's cut them into the shapes of hearts and stars, and got up before dawn to make sure it was done, too. His father has always said to take pride in a job well done, and Teddy takes pride in his baking. It may not be what his father wants him to do, necessarily, but Teddy's going to be proud of what he loves to do anyway. He pulls them out of the oven and takes a big, deep breath of the wonderful scent.  
  
In his little corner of the kitchens, Severa sneaks down from the rafters and steals a bit of the gingerbread dough while Teddy's cleaning it off. But Teddy knows she's there.  
  
"If you wait 'til the gingerbread is done cooling, I'll give you some," Teddy says. "It's almost there, I think."  
  
Severa makes a face. "Less fun that way," she says. "'Sides, weren't you going to give the first piece to your new _boyfriend_?"  
  
Teddy flushes. "Don't be silly," he says. "Ke'tu didn't seem to like the gingerbread when I made him some last time."  
  
"Might be because Ke'tu is the kind of guy who could watch someone kill a puppy and only shed one tear," Severa replies. "He probably did like your gingerbread and just didn't say it."  
  
"He called me Theodore," Teddy muses. "Do you think that means anything? What if I'm bothering him?"  
  
Severa rolls her eyes. "You're not. That's just the facts. He may come visit you here, by the way."  
  
Teddy's face goes pale. "You didn't," he says.  
  
Severa, hanging from the rafters, giggles. "Who, me? 'Course not." She steals a heart-shaped piece of gingerbread, still hot from the oven, and uses her mitten as a potholder to grasp it.  
  
Across the kitchen, head cook Bridgette slams her hands on a counter. "Is that brat in here _again?_ Damn it, who forgot to lock the windows?"  
  
"Locks can't keep _me_ out, old lady!" Severa shouts. She makes a face, then uses Teddy as a ladder to get back up to the rafters and out the window in the roof. She leaves the head cook in her dust, who scowls and returns to sharpening her knives.  
  
On the roof, Severa snickers. Like shooting fish in a barrel, really— it's almost too easy. She can annoy the head cook, who really thinks she can keep Severa out with simple locks, and see her favorite (and only) older cousin at the same time. She's glad he finally has something for her to tease him about other than his usual cowardliness, which was getting stale and felt kind of mean.  
  
She climbs up the roof and walks along the ridge, arms outstretched. She takes a bite of her gingerbread, hopping onto a dormer to watch life go by in the courtyard. It snowed yesterday, so she watches Cynthia and Owain build a snowman. It looks kind of like Sir Frederick, if Severa gets closer, and it seems they've borrowed his favorite scarf and hat. Cynthia has poked twigs into the head to look like his hair, and Owain has fashioned a tree branch into a lance to put next to him.  
  
She climbs down a stack of crates and walks into the courtyard, hopping down the two or so steps it is from the corridor to the grass. Her shoes crunch on the freshly-fallen snow.  
  
"He needs to be bigger," Cynthia's saying, her ears and nose and cheeks red in the cold. She coughs, and sniffs. Her lungs are going to throw a fit for her being out in the cold, but she doesn't even care. "Papa's really tall. Like… _this_ tall." She stretches her arms above her head as far as they'll go, her too-big coat still covering her hands. Her mittens aren't finished yet, so her hands are bare and pink from packing snow.  
  
"I can't put on more snow if he's already built," Owain complains.  
  
"But he's not that small!" Cynthia protests. "He doesn't look like my papa if he's too small!"  
  
"It's fine," Owain says. "He has the hat and scarf and lance. Hold on, let's make him all frowny." Owain reaches up and uses pebbles to make a scowl in snow-Frederick's face.  
  
"I could probably borrow your dad's old lance for the snowman," Severa contributes, munching on her gingerbread. "For a price, anyway."  
  
"No, papa got mad the last time we did that," Cynthia shakes her head. "But Owain made one, so it's okay. Can you make him taller, Sev'ra?"  
  
"Only ice magic could make him taller now," Severa says. "Hey, guess what, though—"  
  
"What?" Owain and Cynthia chorous.  
  
Severa grins, and holds up her gingerbread. "Your brother made a fresh batch."  
  
Gasps of excitement. Cynthia bounces excitedly, clapping her hands together. "Teddy made gingerbread! Teddy made gingerbread!" she cheers.  
  
Owain takes her hand. "Come on, let's go get some before he runs out," he says. They sprint off towards the kitchens. Severa grins, and continues munching.  
  
Cynthia bursts into the kitchens a second later. She takes a moment to wheeze and catch her breath, and then looks around. "Miss Bridgey!" she says to the head cook. "Where's Teddy? I heard he was makin' gingerbread!"  
  
"Shouldn't you youngsters wait until after breakfast?" Head cook Bridgette says, crouching to their level. Owain and Cynthia both shake their heads. Bridgette supposes she can't argue with that.  
  
"The ovens in the corner," she says, pointing. "Don't spoil your appetites, now."  
  
"We won't," Owain promises. Cynthia, mindful of the cooks working to prepare breakfast for the whole of the Garrison, makes her way with Owain to Teddy's station.  
  
She peers over the counter. Teddy is humming a tune to himself, dusting his hands with flour and kneading the dough for the morning rolls into shape.  
  
Cynthia pokes him. "Teddy, where's the gingerbread?" she asks. Owain stands behind her with an identical look of adorable puppy eyes, silently asking for just a _little_ piece of gingerbread, _pretty please?_  
  
And of course Teddy can't say no to anybody, so he nods to the tray on the counter. "Don't burn yourselves," he cautions. "It's still cooling."  
  
Owain takes two pieces, one for himself and one for Cynthia. "Let's take a piece for Nah," he suggests. "She likes gingerbread, right?"  
  
"If she doesn't, we can split it," Cynthia decides. "You think she's awake?"  
  
"Let's go look," Owain says. He hands a piece of gingerbread to Cynthia and tucks the rest in his pocket. They dash off, hand in hand, and Teddy smiles and continues rolling dough.  
  
Owain gently pushes open the door to Nah's room a minute later. She shares it with Marti, and both of them are, at present, sharing a mound of spare quilts and blankets in one of the corners and weathering through brumation together. Marti is out cold, ear twitching in her sleep, but Nah's ears twitch when the doors open, despite the rest of her being burrowed in the pile.  
  
Cynthia walks quietly over to her friend, because she knows it's good manners to be quiet when Manaketes are brumating. "We got you gingerbread," she whispers, except she's seven and bad at whispering, so it's not that quiet. "Teddy was makin' it." Owain offers her the piece from his pocket. This one is shaped like a star.  
  
Nah reaches out one tiny hand from the blankets and takes it. "Thanks," she whispers back. "Sorry I can't play with you."  
  
"It's okay," Owain promises. "Manaketes can't do things in the winter, though, right? So you'll just have to play with us more once it warms up."  
  
Nah grins, and takes a bite of her gingerbread. "Deal," she says. Owain and Cynthia take their leave, and Nah munches on her gingerbread from beneath her covers. It's good to have friends, she decides.  
  
At exactly the same time, Severa walks Kjelle to breakfast. She's walking backwards, already finished with her gingerbread, mittens stuffed in her pockets and her too-big sweater sleeves dangling over her hands. Kjelle has her father's old coat that's far too big, the hood flopped over her head. She frowns, face scrunched in thought.  
  
"Noire," Kjelle guesses.  
  
Severa makes a face. "No way," she scoffs. "She's cute, but cries way too much."  
  
"Well, it can't be _Cynthia_ because she's your cousin," Kjelle reasons. "And it can't be Mophead because he's not a girl even if he is kind of cute, and it can't be Gerome because he only likes boys, even if you _did_. Marti?"  
  
"I don't know her well enough," Severa replies. "Cute, but no thanks."  
  
"It's not me, is it?" Kjelle asks warily.  
  
Severa snorts. "No, that'd make this way too awkward," she decides. "Don't you know how courting people works? You can't be friends with them at the same time, that's different. My mom's romance novels all say so."  
  
"Your mom's romance novels are wastes of literature," Kjelle retorts. "I mean, seriously? _How to Make Him Fall for You in a Fortnight?_ Who reads that drivel? And who is 'him?'"  
  
"The 'him' is an example— and you're right, but still," Severa shrugs. "If it's in a book for grown-up women, it has to be true. Right?"  
  
Kjelle thinks that there are lots of books for grown-up women that are full of tripe and nonsense, but Severa is better at girl things than Kjelle is, so she nods. "I guess so," she admits. "They had to work for somebody, right?"  
  
"Exactly," Severa says. "Now, do you give up?"  
  
"Yeah," Kjelle sighs. "Who is it you like? 'Cause I know it's somebody."  
  
Severa smirks, turning around and making her twintails bounce. "How 'bout you tell me who you like first?"  
  
"Gross, no!" Kjelle makes a face. "That'd mean I wanna _kiss_ them, and kissing is gross. I like punching things."  
  
"It's _Lucina_ , you big dolt!" Severa blurts. "I mean— gosh, she's _so_ dreamy. How can you not?"  
  
Kjelle thinks about that, frowning. The Lucina she knows is more often covered in dirt and sweat from training, with scraped knees and bruised knuckles. She's tough and stubborn and a good training partner, even if she's taller and older so she always wins the running races, but she's good to play ball with. "I guess," she admits. "I never really thought about it."  
  
"Yeah, that's because you're _you_ ," Severa replies. "Whatever. Hey, last one to the dining hall gives up their gingerbread!"  
  
Severa sprints off. "Not fair, you had a headstart!" Kjelle shouts, running after her. And Severa cackles, but she'll let Kjelle win because Severa has nothing to lose.  
  
Kjelle pushes past Lucina, also on her way to breakfast, Falchion ever-present on her back. It's too big to carry in the sheath at her waist, because she's too short to not have it drag on the floor. Lissa says she'll grow into it.  
  
She falls back into step with Gerome. "Looks like they're excited," she points out.  
  
"Why wouldn't they be?" Gerome shrugs. "I hear there's gingerbread today."  
  
"Severa probably already stole some," someone else comments— Mophead, better known as the-boy-who-can't-decide-his-name, on Gerome's other side. They're holding hands, but Gerome claims it's because Mophead lost one of his gloves and he doesn't want his friend's hands to get cold. Even _Lucina_ can tell that's a bold-faced lie.  
  
Lucina shrugs. "That's not strange. Oh, Mophead, I heard you narrowed down your list of names?"  
  
"I did!" Mophead beams. He pushes his glasses up on his nose and digs a list out of his pocket. "Let's see. Jonah felt too obvious, so I've got… William, Gregory, Joseph, Laurent, James, and Archibald."  
  
"You're picking the nerdiest names ever," Gerome comments. "Why not stick to Jonah?"  
  
"Or Jonas," Lucina suggests.  
  
"No, it feels too much like Joan," Mophead shakes his head.  
  
"Laurent has promise, then," Lucina says.  
  
"Laurent," Mophead tests out the name. He thinks for a solid four seconds. "I don't think so. It won't last."  
  
Gerome rolls his eyes. "Just pick a name and tell your mother you're a boy," he says. "Dancing around the issue won't help anybody."  
  
"What if she doesn't like it, though?" Mophead frowns. "Like— what if I haven't thought about it long enough? She'll say I should do the scientific method."  
  
"I've talked to Miriel enough that I'm pretty sure she'll take your word for it," Lucina brings up. "You don't have to have a name to know you're not a girl, I'm pretty sure. It's like picking what you want to eat for breakfast and that's that. Just because before you've always picked sausage and eggs doesn't mean you can't start picking oatmeal now, or applesauce, or all of them, or a combination, or just skipping altogether. I like to mix it up."  
  
Gerome and Mophead give her identical Looks. Gerome, even behind the ever-present mask, raises an eyebrow.  
  
"Not everybody tries on genders like trying on clothes, Lucina," he says. Lucina blinks in surprise. That almost certainly sounds false.  
  
"Well, _however_ it is you do it," she says, waving a hand. "What's really important is how good in a fight you are. And whatever your name or gender is, I don't think that'll change." Which is comforting to Mophead, in a strange way.

"I'll tell my parents when I turn thirteen," he says. "So... four months. Then I'll have my name figured out and it'll be fine, right?" And to him, that sounds like a good plan.  
  
They take three pieces of gingerbead from the basket in the dining hall. Teddy has put them in a basket on top of a tea towel to prevent crumbs from getting in the weaving. He smiles when he sees them enjoying their gingerbread— this, he thinks, is why he bakes, even if his father would rather see him hold a shield or spear. He can't make people happy by fighting, no matter how hard he tries.  
  
Ke'tu takes a piece of gingerbread. Teddy's heart leaps into his throat, and he almost drops his basket of eggs.  
  
"Y-you like the gingerbread?" he stammers.  
  
Ke'tu glances at him. "Good morrow, Theodore," he says. "Of course I do."  
  
"Oh, good," Teddy says, face flushing. "Because, see, I was worried you didn't— like, maybe I was bothering you making you try all these baked goods? B-but I'm glad you like them, really, a-and hey, maybe I can show you how to make them sometime, or not, either way's okay with me."  
  
"I believe I would like that," Ke'tu says. He smiles, a microscopic amount, and Teddy isn't sure if Ke'tu's cheeks look a bit flushed or if it's just left over from being out in the cold.  
  
At another table, Lissa notices the exchange— she notices many things. Has to, otherwise how would she know what the situation with the people is? She nudges Frederick, at her side as always, and nods to them.  
  
"Looks like your son's made a friend," she says.  
  
Frederick grunts. "Good. I worry his timid nature interferes with his social wellbeing."  
  
Lissa raises an eyebrow. It's a little different from friendship, at least if she's noticing right, and wonders if Frederick is seriously this dense. " _Really_ , now?"  
  
"Of course," Frederick says. "He could be lonely. Even if he hasn't the spine for the army, I at least want the best for him socially."  
  
"Looks like the baking thing may net him a boyfriend," Lissa comments. She looks back at Teddy and Ke'tu. Ke'tu takes his leave, and Teddy waves and grins dreamily, like a lovesick puppy.  
  
Frederick blinks. "Clearly," he says. "I must talk to him about that. Dating women comes with its own set of precautions that he's aware of, of course, but I hadn't forseen this. I ought to make sure he knows what he's getting into."  
  
"Don't get too serious on him," Lissa warns. "He's only fourteen. Let him be young, for a while longer." The thing she leaves unsaid is that they may not be able to for much longer— times could change at any moment. So for now, let the children be young.


	10. Chiaroscuro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lissa scoffs. "I'm no prophet."_
> 
> _To that, Libra smiles enigmatically. "Indeed, you are not," he says, and leaves it at that. He falls in the next battle and Lissa wonders why she didn't ask him the prophet's name._
> 
> A kind gesture on a bloody battlefield, a star on a moonless night, a bit of fertile dirt in a bleached-bone land. An Exalt has always been a symbol of hope.

Time passes, as time does. Ice spreads over December and it snows in the second half. At some point the staves stop working and the death toll spikes, and Lissa adds medical supplies to the list of things the Garrison needs. She starts sending out teams of scavengers to the cities and towns in Ylisse that have been abandoned just for a chance of bringing back food or clothing or supplies. Game gets tougher to find, so the hunters turn to fish. The Garrison still has a steady supply of eggs and winter crops, fortunately enough. Lissa says it may be difficult, but they'll make it through— and they do. 1430 ends with snow and her aunt raising a somber glass of brandy to those they've lost.  
  
The weather warms gradually after Fae ends. Snow turns to rain that floods the lowlands but it's a source of fresh water that's sorely needed after a winter of melting snow to fill the resivoirs. It rains for a week and a half straight in Marth and the streets of Ylisstol get so flooded the scavengers have to put the wagons on rafts. Not to mention the mud— the mud everyone tracks in, Lissa says one day, is worse than the water damage. She'd rather repair every rafter in the Garrison by herself than have to clean out more mud from the floors. She makes everyone wipe their feet before going inside and can't believe she has to actually make it an order.  
  
But the rain does stop and puddles of water stay because the sun just refuses to dry them up fast enough, and it's great fun to play in them for a while, but then the mosquitoes come and it's no longer safe to go outside in the new warmth without long sleeves and socks and shoes. The rain kills almost as many as the cold does. They were dark times— Lucina kept telling herself and her friends that things would get better, but it got harder to believe it every minute.  
  
The spring does not bring wildflowers but the animals come back and hunting starts once more, and the temperature rises. Squalls sweep through with heavy rains that damn near tear holes in the protective oilcloth the gardeners have to pull over the gardens so the rain doesn't pulverise their crops, and the clouds are so dark the lightning that lights up the sky with false daylight is blinding. One of the scribes dies of a lightning strike and a new one takes up the death ledger. They carve the names of the fallen into bricks in the walls bordering the outside corridor. It gets hot enough that people stop wearing shoes and save them for when it's cold or necessary. Lucina celebrates her thirteenth birthday on the twentieth of Abel by officially switching from training with wooden swords to training with iron.  
  
Summer of 1431 sees the first Risen siege. They rise from the very ground and throw themselves at the Garrison walls, waves upon waves of undead that melt into steaming heaps of muck when they're decapitated or stabbed the right way. Weak individually, but Lissa herself sees good soldiers overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of them— they fall screaming in terror to acid-dripping claws and dull iron blades. Their surviving bretheren pry the weapons and armor from their corpses, and chuck them into the wagon. Lissa sees friends fall to the Risen as well as the soldiers she doesn't know; Panne, Kellam, Stahl, Vaike, Sumia, Ricken, Donnel. She can never quite manage to look their children in the eye when she tells them _I'm sorry, it's just you now._ Some had siblings (not all living, not anymore). It weighs on her heart the heaviest when she takes one of them aside that's already lost one parent or one sibling or a combination of the two that they're the only one left. She holds their hand and tells them it's alright to cry, she's going to be strong for them. And if they let her, she holds them when they do.  
  
They carve more names and more dates into the bricks. Libra and Miriel are for once agreed on what to do with the bodies— _burn them,_ they say, so they will not rise again as monsters. Ashes fly from the top of the tower and scatter in the weak summer breeze.  
  
The Risen don't stop after that. But they pause, sometimes, and that's when the scavengers loot the corpses and take them back to be burned, and pick clean the battlefields for anything, anything at all the Risen may have left behind. Miriel and her platoon of mages and apprentices sacrifice sleep studying how they work. Lissa has never felt the drive to believe in any gods (not since her brother died) but she finds herself praying for good news every day. It's difficult to say things will be alright when she could be next.  
  
That summer is long and dry and hot. Life is still living, somehow— the Garrison's crops grow and their wells have not run dry, and there are still birds in the sky and fish in the lakes and bugs in the air, living despite everything. Lissa has wondered if there's any act of rebellion she could possibly do, just to spite whatever is doing this to them, and decides that living is rebellion enough, since it seems the gods are trying to kill them.  
  
She overhears a conversation in the early autumn. Libra clasps his calloused hands together in prayer at the crumbling shrine to Naga he constructed in a corner of the infirmary, and prays. Why, he's confessed, he's not sure. But he believes with a fervor that Lissa thinks is needed in these trying times.  
  
"Why must the gods test us so?" he says one day, looking bitterly at the shrine. And Nah, with those eyes too old for her body, looks at him.  
  
"There are no gods anymore," she says. "The Realm above has been filled with silence. Naga is dead."  
  
Lissa has never seen a grown man look more afraid of the words of a small child.  
  
Well, fine. With no gods, she'll find something else to believe in— the thunk of her axe in the skull of a Risen, the stain of blood and undead goo on her worn-out trousers, the mud beneath her boots and the bitter taste of brandy in her mouth. As sure as she walks and speaks, these things will remain true. Who needs gods?  
  
She wills that her voice remain strong when she tells this to her people. _Things may not get better,_ she says. _But do they have to? We're living anyway! And damn it, if I have to throttle every Risen I see with my bare fists, I will do it if it means something worth believing in survives. We'll last this siege until the ground runs out of dead or the sky runs out of air. Until my last breath, I will see to it._ And her people raise their glasses of mead and pledge themselves anew to Lissa— to the breath in their lungs and the ground under their feet, and to waking up another morning to say _damn it, there's still a cause worth living for!_  
  
"There are stories," Libra tells her one day, "In the Books of Naga, of a prophet that led her people through seven plagues, relying only on the Word and faith that the ground will be before her to take another step."  
  
"Yeah, well," Lissa says. "I don't have the word of a goddess to tell me what I'm doing is worth it. I don't even know if it will be."  
  
"Nor did the prophet," Libra replies. "The world was blank and empty, but life as she knew it was no longer the same. She had no choice but to trust that there would be something in the end. Perhaps it would be her death, and she would have been a fool— but perhaps it would be a new world, and hope for the future that came with it. So she trusted in her own word and walked, and the people followed."  
  
Lissa scoffs. "I'm no prophet."  
  
To that, Libra smiles enigmatically. "Indeed, you are not," he says, and leaves it at that. He falls in the next battle and Lissa wonders why she didn't ask him the prophet's name.  
  
Autumn announces itself with rain— rain pounding on the slate-shingle roofing hard enough that it knocks some loose and breaks tree branches. It's a hard, angry rain that freezes when the temperature drops in November and coats the Garrison in ice. Sickness comes again like it did in October of the last year but it's not a virus this time, it's a wasting disease where the afflicted lie down and cannot get up again; a slow death and it always ends with them begging for an end after a week. It is indiscriminate in who it takes. Lissa makes the decision to end it when it becomes clear this isn't ordinary tiredness. It is the right thing to do.  
  
It snows in December. Lucina starts a snowball fight when the snow piles up and it escalates until Lissa finds herself in the snow, laughing, joining in on the fun. She seems to have an unfair edge because nobody wants to be the one to bean the Exalt in the face with a snowball, but it is an edge that dulls eventually. For the afternoon, she does not want to be anywhere but here. She says farewell to 1431 with her son slumbering beside her in her bed because he didn't want to feel alone, and Lucina curled up in the armchair for the same reason but she thinks she's too old to sleep in the same bed as her family. (She moves to the bed in the middle of the night, when Lissa is asleep, and Lissa doesn't blame her.)  
  
1432 makes itself known with another Risen attack in the middle of Lucina's practice session with Ke'tu. She sprints out, Falchion in hand, when Ke'tu responds to the siege bells and has her sword in a Risen before Lissa can pull her out of the battle. She watches it slide off her blade, a look of horror on her face, and Lissa sprints over and picks her up without a thought.  
  
Lucina protests. "You need help," she says.  
  
"We don't need you to fight," Lissa replies. "You're too young."  
  
And because the young do not always do what they are told, Lucina sprints back into the battle with Falchion gleaming in her wake. Lissa sprouts fourteen gray hairs in that battle but Lucina lives, and grins like she's so proud of herself for disobeying, blood on her cheek and her blade. She's too young for this. She's too young to kill. Lissa can only see herself, fourteen years old and out with her brother's Shepherds for the first time, witnessing firsthand the carnage of battle and only able to be proud of herself for contributing to the mayhem. She'll realize it once the threat is gone, and it'll be all she sees when she closes her eyes. Lucina is too young.  
  
Lucina doesn't say it, but Lissa knows. The light in her eyes changes— it's not innocence anymore, it's determination, like she's ready to spit out the blood in her mouth, crack her knuckles, and heft her sword again because the alternative is dying. Lissa wonders if she has nightmares.  
  
It's not the way Lissa would have it happen, but some of her friends join her— Gerome on his  wyvern, Laurent who has finally decided on his name, Marti despite everything her elder brother says. They watch one another's backs and guard Lucina as soldiers would, and Lissa thinks how much Lucina reminds her of Chrom. (Lissa doesn't know if she forgives him yet.)  
  
The days grow longer. Miriel's increasingly desperate ventures into the arcane catch up to her in Fae and one of the apprentices finds her dead on the floor of her study. Lon'qu disappears into thin air and his death is ruled a suicide. Lissa has to tell Laurent that both of his parents died on the same day, and he swallows, and takes his mother's journals, and tucks his glasses in his pocket so the tears won't stain them.  
  
Lucina trains harder. Lissa misses her smile— when Lissa tells her she's doing well, all Lucina does is nod and say _thank you, I've been working very hard,_ and then goes back to training. She's strong enough to lift Falchion without breaking a sweat (the blade blesses her), but Lissa can only wonder and worry. She turns fourteen in Abel and Lissa misses the days she acted like a child.  
  
The Risen attacks slow for another two months. In Julius Lissa sends Sully on an expedition to the Plegian border from which she barely returns with her life, and she dies in the infirmary three days later. They carve her name into a brick. By the time August rolls around it's just Lissa and Frederick and Maribelle and Lissa wonders how much more of this they can take.  
  
It's August of 1432. The days aren't important anymore because the gods-damned world is ending and it's all anybody can do to find a reason to take another breath of the dust-choked air. Lissa just wants it all to stop so she can sleep soundly for once— she wants to fall to her knees and cry, face in her hands like she's a girl of fourteen that's haunted by the carnage of her first battlefield, wanting it all to stop because there's only so much a human can take.  
  
It is 1432. The end began two years ago, when Lissa watched her brother die. But she's done grieving— if the End Days won't show her any mercy, then she has to be harder.


	11. Little Songbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So she runs despite the throbbing of the bruises on her shins because she knows they're nothing compared to what will be if she's caught. She runs as far as she dares, and she sleeps under trees and awnings until she finally reaches the border reaches and there is nothing but grass._
> 
> A bird raised in a cage learns what it feels like to be loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry mcfucking christmas its a rajni chapter

Rajni is not used to being queen.  
  
One would assume she would be, after two years in Plegia and after being married to Chrom, but it still feels so strange. She doesn't feel like a queen. She also keeps expecting Validar to walk in through a door with his cane and berate her for something she didn't do quite right, but that won't happen. But her shins ache where he always hits them with his cane anyways if she lets herself think about it.  
  
She's grateful that Marcus has taken to living in Dahiri, at least. It almost seems to suit him— he takes to the language like a fish to water, with Saria's coaching, and it reminds Rajni of what she was, once.  
  
She used to dream about having the power to destroy anyone who'd ever hurt her. And here she is, and she's terrified of it.  
  
But she makes it quiet down. She rereads her old favorite books from when she was young and remembers— even if she doesn't always want to.  
  
Bloody noses and tears on her face. She's twelve and Eris is whispering to her to lash out, to fight back— she is a queen and does not deserve to be treated this way. A scarlet voice taking root in the back of her mind telling her to kick and scream and she tells them _I'll be punished for it,_ and the voice says _well it's either that or be a coward, so what are you going to do?_ And she stays quiet and holds stolen socks to her bloody nose.  
  
Her father says she can do better. _I know I can, father,_ she says. And she thinks, _but I'm tired, I'm so tired, please let me go to sleep, I can try again tomorrow._ Her head is thick with magic that's stretched too thin, nose and ears bleeding, shins bruised where the cane hits. She says _please, I'm tired,_ and Validar's hand hits her cheek. The marks sting. He takes her chin and says _do it again_ and she forces the tears down and does it again.  
  
The voice tells her she's meant to be greater; it can give her power enough to send her father out of the picture forever. It can make her brother stop his mocking and teasing and picking fights, it can show them, once and for all, that she is a daughter of forces that ought not be messed with. She digs her nails into her palm to _make it stop_. She is twelve and curled up in the corner of her too-big bedroom full of scattered books and food stolen from the kitchens because she misses meals in training with her father and nobody will keep meals warm for her. She shuts her eyes and wants it to _stop_. Validar glowers, waiting for her to push herself until she gets it right like he knows she will, and Aversa is always at his side thinking _this isn't right,_ but she has been told with words and without since Validar took her in that she has no power under him, she is the student and he is the teacher and she will not talk back. She stopped talking back when she was Rajni's age and he whacked her across the knees or the backs of her hands with the stupid cane he carries. But still, something in her says _this isn't right._  
  
White hair in her eyes when she bows her head. He pushes her until she can barely make sparks and she is panting, wheezing, begging in her mind _please, I'm tired, let me rest, let me eat._ Nobody has kept dinner warm for her but she's never asked the kitchen staff to; she's learned to steal and hoard food in her room and eat when she finally gets a break. Sometimes someone sets dinner beside her bedroom door and knocks, quietly, and Rajni always hurries to the door to see who it is and thank them but Aversa is halfway down the hall by then. Rajni wishes she'd stay and keep her company. _Next time I'll call out,_ Rajni tells herself, but she never does when next time comes.  
  
Mother is wonderful during these years; a blessed presence gliding down the halls of the palace. She sets her hand on Rohan's cheek and says _you need not fight_ even if he never listens; she cleans the blood and tears from Rajni's face and kisses her forehead and then she leaves. Rajni never knows where she goes and can never make her voice loud enough to call for her when she needs it. She wants to ask _mother, do you love me_ and get an answer but she never asks and never receives. And in the end the red voice scoffs and says _if she really loved you, she'd see how the slime you call father treats you._ So Rajni does not ask.  
  
Eris takes hold for the first time when Rajni is thirteen. She is ferocious and takes her mind with strong fingers when she is hunched over in the training hall with blood from her nose and ears pooling on the tile and her shins aching and bruised; her knuckles bleed because Rajni had been pounding them into the stone to keep the beast from taking hold but she is not strong enough anymore and she cries, because never in her life has she felt more helpless and she _hates_ herself for it.  
  
Mother arrives and takes Rajni's chin in her gentle hands, and Eris strikes. She snarls and grabs mother's hand and says, _do you really love her?_  
  
And mother says _yes, of course I do_ — mother rarely speaks but her voice is soft and lilting and if the mere sound of a voice really could calm a savage beast then it would be hers, but the creature is feeding on the anger Rajni will not allow herself to feel that her mother only shows up when she's beaten and on her knees, not when she gets it in her mind to call out _mother, do you love me_ and wants to believe her mother will say _yes, of course I do._ She only shows up when Rajni wants to ask that and expects her to say _no, because there is nothing here I could love; you are only a broken shell that exists so I can wipe away your tears and feel good about myself despite not having done anything._ And in that moment Rajni is thirteen and so angry that Eris will not be reasoned with.  
  
_Liar,_ Eris growls. Bones in mother's arm snap and she gasps, arching in pain. Rajni's muscles are screaming in pain and Eris could not be further from caring.  
  
_You don't love her,_ Eris says through Rajni's clenched teeth. _You_ pity _her. Where are you when she needs you?_  
  
_I am here now,_ mother says.  
  
_Not good enough,_ Eris grinds out. Rajni gets to her feet and Eris glares down coldly at mother through eyes glowing scarlet. There's blood crusting on her lip and jaw. She takes mother's throat in her hand and squeezes— Inside, Rajni screams, begs her not to. She doesn't listen.  
  
Rohan interrupts and tackles Rajni to the floor. She skids on the stone. He's bigger and stronger but Rajni has the strength of a monster, and she swears she can see the fear in Rohan's eyes when the creature makes her get up and snarl, white hair mussed and in her eyes, claws erupting from her fingertips and making them bleed.  
  
They fight with every ounce of hatred both of them have internalized over thirteen years of dealing with their father; until they're both bruised and aching and until Rajni finally wrestles control from the monster and says _stop, please_ —  
  
_Why should I?_ Rohan says, thinking it's for him, but Rajni curls into herself on the floor, nails digging so hard into her bruising arms that her nails cut and bleed. _Stop it, stop it,_ she begs. She strikes the ground with her bruised fists and it does not feel like enough; she braces herself and slams her head into the stone and pain erupts through her whole being and she shudders, shakes, tears roll down her cheeks, and knocks aside Eris's control.  
  
Rohan watches and she ignores him. She's thirteen and curled on the stone floor and crying, chest shaking, and it is the first time her mother does not come. She has never before felt so utterly alone.  
  
Aversa brings her dinner again. And this time she stays and cleans the blood off Rajni's face and tells her what happened. Rajni asks where mother is and Aversa says _I don't know, but she has the right idea staying away from Validar._ Rajni says she wishes mother would stay with her, just once.  
  
_She does love you,_ Aversa says.  
  
_Then why hasn't she done anything to help me believe it?_ Rajni asks, and Aversa can't answer that. She braids Rajni's hair behind her ears and cleans the dirt-speckled glass in Rajni's glasses and says _not all people were meant to be mothers, and just because she loves you doesn't mean she was ever fit to the task of motherhood._  
  
_Why did she have me and Rohan, then?_ Rajni asks.  
  
_We don't always have a choice,_ Aversa says, combing her hair out of her eyes. That makes something cold settle in the pit of Rajni's stomach. She's suddenly not as hungry as she was a minute ago. She sets her plate aside.  
  
Aversa looks at her with an expression that can only be described as sorrow. _It is a tragic truth of this world,_ she says. _I don't doubt your mother and Validar loved one another once. But these things still happen, whether love is involved or not. It's why women have to look out for one another._  
  
That reassures Rajni, a little bit. Aversa sits with her as long as she can, until she can't risk Validar finding her in Rajni's room any longer. She kisses Rajni's cheek and hugs her, long and close, and _says someone important once told me that Plegian women have beautiful hearts, and you are not an exception, no matter what Validar or that monster in your head tells you._  
  
_Who was it?_ Rajni asks.  
  
And Aversa frowns and thinks about it, and says, _I don't remember, but I'm certain they were important._ And then she leaves, down the hall, and Rajni watches her go and thinks _how did I deserve to have a friend like her?_  
  
_They think you were never meant to be anything more than a vessel for power, my sweet friend,_ the voice tells her. _But I can make you a goddess. They will show you the respect you deserve._  
  
_I don't want to hurt anyone,_ Rajni tells it.  
  
_You cannot get to where you deserve to be by being a pacifist,_ the voice replies. _Let me have control. Let me show them what happens when they dare to treat you as lesser._  
  
But she never lets it. She buries herself in her books and forces it down when Validar demands she train harder despite her aching head and trembling knees, when Rohan sneers at her out the corner of her eye and says _I always knew you were a monster._  
  
_Why do you let them treat you like this, Rajni?_ The voice asks. _You have the power to destroy them. Why?_  
  
_I don't have power,_ Rajni tells it. _Father will be upset._  
  
_He can't be if he's dead,_ the voice says. _We can kill him. We can, together. Or I can. You won't have to do anything. Let me do this for you, my sweet Rajni._  
  
_I can't,_ Rajni says. _I'm scared._ She hugs her bruised shins closer to herself. Bruises over bruises; she has learned to fear the swish that the cane makes when it's about to hit just below her knees. She cannot touch swords because the sound they make when they're about to hit the training dummy is too similar. Her daggers are quieter and don't make her queasy by the sounds they make.  
  
_You don't have to fear,_ the voice promises. _Be not afraid, my friend. I have the power to get you away from here._  
  
_We don't have to kill them?_ Rajni asks. _I don't want to kill them. I want to get away._  
  
_I can do that,_ the voice says. And Rajni hangs on to the sparkle of hope that ignites.  
  
Mother disappears within the year and Validar's second wife takes up the mantle. Dris has cherry-red hair and a grin bigger than the desert skies, and her two children fathered by Validar, a boy and girl, respectively three and five years younger than Rajni, both share her smile and her hair and her spirit. They start spending more time in the main wing of the palace once Validar's first wife is gone.  
  
They're wonderful, the children. The brother, Pietra, gets along with everyone he talks to, even Rohan, and his sister Aviae is sweet and studies with Rajni and loves to dance, even if she's not very good at it. Rajni does not see Dris very often but when she does, Dris tucks her mussed white hair out of her face and asks her if she's eating well because she looks too thin. She is so different from mother that Rajni doesn't know what to think.  
  
Dris tells her stories from her travels— she traveled the world as a sellsword until she met Validar, Rajni learns, and the name Ylisse sticks in her head. _But weren't we at war with Ylisse?_ Rajni asks.  
  
_I'm sure it's all fine now, it's been years,_ Dris says, waving a hand.  
  
Rajni is seventeen when she runs away. She has a final fight with Rohan on the night she leaves but she forces the monster down and runs, as fast as she can, because she knows that if she stops for a second, Validar will catch her and bring her back and the cane, the cane will hurt so badly she'll barely be able to walk. So she runs despite the throbbing of the bruises on her shins because she knows they're nothing compared to what will be if she's caught. She runs as far as she dares, and she sleeps under trees and awnings until she finally reaches the border reaches and there is nothing but grass.  
  
_See,_ she says to the voice. _See, we didn't have to kill them._  
  
_But you could,_ the voice says.  
  
_I don't want to,_ Rajni replies. _Can your power make me run further?_  
  
_For you, it can,_ the voice says. _Be free, little bird._  
  
And she stretches her arms out and runs, and she could swear she's running on the clouds themselves.  
  
There's a field on the border of Ylisse and Plegia, near the southern edge of the continent of Akanea, and it is wild grain as far as she can see. The ground is hard and flat, no good for farming unless it's tilled, but the grasses there are untamed and wild. She finally slows her pace to a walk and cranes her neck up. The moon is out, she thinks. A huge full moon, and there were so many stars it felt like standing in the center of the astronomy tower in the palace except there are no walls and it's real, it's real and she's standing in it.  
  
_I have never been this happy in my life,_ she thinks. Because for once, thoughts of her father and brother and all she's supposed to be are miles away. It has taken her five days to run out here and she has nothing but the clothes on her back and the things in her bag, and her face and clothes are dirty and there are sticks in her hair, but she is happy. And it is then she decides this is what happiness really feels like.  
  
She sleeps under the stars. It's the month of Abel and the night is warm and full of fireflies. She takes off her heavy silk coat and uses it as a pillow, and she dreams of a world where people only cry from joy and where there is nobody shouting at her for doing the wrong thing. It's a nice dream.  
  
She wakes to the sun in her eyes and people talking in a language she does not understand. They're pale-skinned and blue-eyed and Rajni feels fear creep back into her heart because she knows them as Ylisseans, the creatures that she read about in her history books that waged a bloody, messy war with Ylisse when she was young. But these people in green and silver don't look like warmongers, even if the knight in the back glares distrustfully, and even if she can't understand what they're saying.  
  
_Who are you,_ Rajni tries to ask, but they look at her strangely. She tries again. _Are you Ylisseans? Are you going to report me to your border guards for illegally crossing?_ Even though she doesn't think that's a law anymore. And they glance at each other and say something else, slower, but she just scoots back and shakes her head.  
  
But it's alright. Because some things are the same in every language and even if Validar never taught her common-tongue, she can pick up on the cognates. When the man with the blue hair points to himself and says _Chrom, Chrom Grace,_ she knows that means he's saying his name. And he introduces the girl with him (she's Pietra's age, maybe younger) as Lissa and the knight as Frederick, which Rajni hopes she'll never have to try to pronounce because she knows she'll get it wrong.  
  
She's about to introduce herself as Rajni, but something about that strikes her as a bad idea. They won't be able to say it, she realizes. It'll be inconvenient that they have to say something they're not used to; they'll be annoyed with her for having such a hard-to-pronounce name; it's better if she uses something they can say. So when a little red-breasted bird flutters down and pecks at the handle of her dagger, Rajni points to the bird and then to herself.  
  
_Robin?_ Chrom says. _That's your name?_  
  
_Rob-een,_ she repeats, and nods. And she repeats it to herself— Robin. Robin. Robin. Light and pretty and Ylissean, tasting like the blues and greens of their country, light and shiny like their silver armor polished to a mirror's sheen. Their language sounds like the tingling of wind chimes and the songbird's pleasant songs, the babbling of water and leaves rustling quietly. It is a language of order and peace; a language spoken in bells and rustles. She can hear the accents on their tongues. Common-tongue is easier because it shares some words with Plegian, but it's still different. No matter— she will learn.  
  
That is the day Rajni becomes Robin and what Rohan told her comes true.

* * *

Chrom takes her to the capitol after they battle a group of brigands. She can't understand a word anybody is saying because they're all speaking common-tongue but she knows how to help Chrom and his group avoid injury even without knowing the language. Tactics has always been in her blood— commanding armies, helping them stay alive and accomplish their goals. When she is the tactician, nobody questions her; she is powerful, in complete control. _Imagine the whole world at your command like this,_ the red voice whispers. A tactician for all the world. And Rajni can't deny it sounds promising. But she won't submit to it, not now.  
  
In Ylisstol, Chrom gives her a book printed before the Great Siege called _'A Trader's Guide to Modern Common-Tongue.'_ It's in Ylissean and Plegian and common all three, and it's such a thoughtful gift that Rajni wants to cry. She's never been given a gift like this before.  
  
Chrom is a surprisingly patient teacher and she's a quick learner— she's surprised how well she learns without the threat of Validar's cane hanging over her head. She learns the common-tongue quickly, though it's still heavily accented, and she stays quiet because of it until Chrom says _you don't have to stay quiet, you're doing really well! Come on, let's practice._ She keeps expecting him to hit her if she does something wrong but he never does, even if she flinches when he claps his hands in excitement or moves too suddenly. Chrom is made of smiles and forgiveness and sunshine and Robin wonders why she was always taught that Ylisse is full of heartless murderers like their last Exalt. If the last Exalt was such a horrible man then she wonders how Chrom and his sisters are related to him.  
  
And Chrom is wonderful but Rajni can't pretend she doesn't see people side-eye her because her skin is too dark and hair too pale for her to be anything but a child of the desert lands, and once she learns what they're saying she hears _spy, seductress, traitor, liar, spy, spy, spy._ Chrom tells her to ignore them because she's not like the Plegians they're thinking of, she's different, she's the Good Plegian. But even his older sister, whom he says is the kindest and best sister in the world, looks her up and down before shaking her hand and welcoming her to Ylisse.  
  
Chrom is a smart young man but Emmeryn has been the Exalt since she was nine years old and she says herself when she speaks with Rajni that what is her first priority is the safety of her siblings and her country. _I have earned the trust of the people,_ she says. _And I believe you will too, in time. I trust that you have no ill intentions towards my people or my family. But you understand my precautions._  
  
She speaks clearly and slowly so Rajni can think back to her guide to common-tongue and understand what she's saying. Rajni nods and says _yes, ma'am_ with a thickly-accented tongue that is unused to the mixed cadence of common-tongue.  
  
And Emmeryn smiles, though it does not reach her eyes— no emotions do, Rajni notices. Her face is soft and kind but it is hiding a layer of armor hardened in the fifteen-some years she's been a ruler— not armor, a wall, and it's tall and thick and made of stone mortared together so tightly nothing can get through. She has mastered the art of showing her heart to the people without giving a way a single thing about what she's truly feeling, and Rajni thinks, _will I have to do that to Chrom?_  
  
But she keeps winning his battles against Plegian brigands that surely recognize her as Magister Validar's daughter, the one he keeps under lock and key in the palace all the time, but although they whisper in a dialect of Plegian too coarse for her to understand fully, they do not tell Chrom.  
  
_I feel for her,_ she overhears one saying. _Magister Validar's terrible scary. No wonder she ran away._  
  
_Didn't expect her to turn traitor,_ his friend says. _But 'spose I would too, if that was all I knew of Plegia._  
  
She ignores them and wins Chrom's battles for him. The Shepherds warm to her and celebrate her as the hero that keeps them alive, and look to her for guidance on personal matters as well as tactical. They don't care about her broken language or her accent; they just know _that Robin is really smart_ and they say _I'm glad she's here, she's a good friend._ And Rajni feels her façade as Robin get stronger like Robin is its own entity— Rajni tells herself she has to be Robin to them, Robin the tactician, Robin the friend, Robin the hero, and soon enough Robin as a mask comes to life and Rajni wishes it was her.  
  
Robin, she thinks, is who she could've been if she'd been born someone else. If she'd had a family that loved her and no monster in her head. If she'd been born Ylissean, then Robin really would be her name. She'd smile easily and touch people without being afraid, and she wouldn't flinch when people clapped their hands or swung a sword. She'd be a better daughter and friend and tactician than Rajni can ever be, and do the right thing the first time so she wouldn't have to be afraid of Validar's cane. Some things in Rajni's mind are in there so deep that she thinks maybe Robin would have them too, but they wouldn't take over her mind. Robin is not a monster.  
  
Mia comes. Plegia steals the Fire Emblem and the Shepherds and the rest of the Ylissean and Feroxi army march on Plegia the following month of Marth and King Gangrel doesn't deny what he did. The two sides meet on the battlefield because Emmeryn and Chrom hoped they could convince Gangrel of a peaceful solution. Gangrel, of course, denies.  
  
Aversa is at his side, drumming her long, polished fingernails (talons, really) on the tome under her arm. A jet-black pegasus is at her side (Nyx, Rajni thinks with a pang of nostalgic sorrow. Aversa once snuck Rajni out to the stables to meet her pegasus and feed her cubed-up apples. Rajni had been startled at how big the creature was, but Nyx was gentle and eased Rajni's fear. Her heart hurts seeing Aversa, whom she's thought of as a sister since she was a young girl, on the opposite side of the battle.)  
  
_You die today, Gangrel,_ Chrom growls. Gangrel laughs at him and calls him a pup playing at manhood, but Rajni doesn't pay attention to them.  
  
_I'm sorry we had to meet this way,_ she says to Aversa in Plegian that's rusted a bit over the past year or so.  
  
_Are you happy with him?_ Aversa asks.  
  
Rajni swallows. _Yes,_ she says, and it's the truth. And Aversa smiles.  
  
_Your eyes are smiling,_ she says. _I've never seen you so happy before._  
  
_I love him,_ Rajni says, and it's honest, and she's surprised that the words fit so easily into the feelings that have grown where she could've sworn nothing could take root but it's true, she does, and she thinks sorrowfully that he loves Robin and Rajni cannot be her. But what else would she expect? Chrom says Plegians like the word tastes bad and curses the brigands that antagonize his villages and the assassins that killed his sister and the mad king that ordered it, all products of a country he's been told all his life were the Bad Guys. He tells Robin except you, you're a good Plegian, and she smiles to that but she thinks no I'm not, if you knew who I was then you wouldn't say that. But he doesn't and she will not tell him.  
  
_If only we'd met again under happier circumstances_ , Aversa says, smiling sadly.  
  
_When we end the war, you can come visit,_ Rajni says. _You can be my sister again. I've missed you._  
  
_My darling, I wish that were how it worked,_ Aversa says. _But perhaps someday. We will meet again, in a better life._  
  
Chrom sets a hand on her shoulder. _Let's give the soldiers the battle plan,_ he says. _Come on._  
  
And she nods and follows him when he walks off, and sends a glance at Aversa over her shoulder. She doesn't want to fight her sister— even if it's not by blood, Aversa has been the only family she's ever felt like she has.  
  
_Do you know her?_ Chrom asks.  
  
Rajni nods. _She's an old friend,_ she lies, because Aversa has always been family to her.  
  
The battle rages on, on a historic battlefield from the Great Siege-- Fort Beauregard. This battlefield, Rajni remembers from her history lessons, is where the ruthless Exalt Lionel fought Plegia's King Akraam in single combat, greatsword to scimitar. It was a bloody battle with immense casualties on both sides; barely a soldier that fought in that battle got out unscathed. In the end, Exalt Lionel, wounded but still standing, cut down Plegia's king and pried the scimitar, an artifact of Plegia's royal bloodline, out of his dying hand. He hefted it above his head as a trophy and it's rumored it's still in the castle, still bloody, in a display case like it's a tribute to Ylissean victory. At least, that's what Rajni's history tutor said.  
  
Rajni issues orders to the Shepherds, her Shepherds, and the battle is nearly won when Gangrel corners her. She raises her daggers but his sword shoots an arc of lightning at her from his jagged sword, and it's all she can do to dodge.  
  
_Traitor,_ Gangrel taunts her, Plegian language rolling off his tongue. He glares but it isn't cold like she remembers seeing from Validar, it's hot and angry and where Validar didn't care at all, Gangrel cares too much. It is entirely personal to Gangrel, where Validar saw her as a tool. It really says something, she thinks, that the man trying to kill her seems to care more about her as a person than her father did.  
  
She doesn't respond. Chrom steps in front of her and puts an arm out as if to shield her, wielding Falchion like his father did those years ago.  
  
_Step aside, pup, or you die,_ Gangrel says. _Is your vengeance really worth so much?_  
  
_This isn't vengeance, this is justice,_ Chrom says. _No, I'm pretty sure it's vengeance,_ Rajni thinks, but she doesn't say it.  
  
Gangrel barks a laugh. Two of Rajni's arrows stick out of his shoulder and he drags a leg behind him, though his grip around his sword is still just as strong. The blood dripping down his face is the color of his hair. (He's a redhead like Dris and like the twins, Rajni thinks. She wonders if they're doing alright— Dris always did care about her. Rajni feels bad for leaving them without explanation.)  
  
_Your father said the same,_ Gangrel says. _I was there. I was here when the Exalt—_ he spits it like the word tastes bitter _— cut down King Akraam and took the sword from his corpse as a trophy. I was a lowly soldier drafted into it through no choice of my own, but damn it, I had my pride as a young man of Plegia! Ylisse will pay for this insult._  
  
_It's not right to make an entire country pay for one man's deeds,_ Chrom says. _If I've learned one thing from my sister, it's that our father never saw that as truth._  
  
_This is bigger than you or me, pup_ , Gangrel says then. _You cannot stop a war with peace— you may fight for peace, as countries do, but what is the means to that peace? More war._  
  
_I'll change that,_ Chrom says. _I'll bring the peace my sister wanted. Our people have both suffered enough under the strain of war._  
  
_But here, you still must fight,_ Gangrel replies. _Lift your sword, pup. It's men's nature to fight, regardless of cause._  
  
Chrom grits his teeth. Rajni raises her bow. She nocks her arrow, draws it back, and kisses the shaft— _so it knows for whom it flies_ , she's learned. Virion taught her this and she sees no reason not to do so.  
  
_You don't have to hurt anyone,_ Rajni tells him. _Let me do this for you._  
  
_Robin_ — he tries to say.  
  
But she lets the arrow fly before he can protest. It hits Gangrel straight and true, right in the chest, and he staggers back and falls. His sword falls out of his grasp.  
  
Chrom lowers his blade. _Then that's it,_ he says. _The war is over._  
  
He picks up Gangrel's sword and offers it to her. She looks at him quizzically.  
  
_You dealt the final blow,_ he says. The blade is yours.  
  
She takes it. Magic tingles in her hands when she grips it. She feels her fingertips go numb. She doesn't want the sword— it's stained with Ylissean blood and it makes her sick to her stomach because when she swings it it will swish like the cane and she'll feel the long-healed bruises on her shins send waves of pain through her body even though it's been a year since the cane last hit her skin.  
  
She hears the _whump-whump-whump_ of huge wings. Aversa lifts Gangrel's body onto the back of the pegasus, and she sends Rajni and Chrom a glance that Rajni cannot read.  
  
Before Rajni knows what she's doing, she hands Aversa the sword.  
  
_It belongs to Plegia,_ she says. And Aversa says nothing with her mouth, but her eyes say _I'm sorry this could not work out the way we wanted it to._ And she takes the sword and mounts Nyx again and takes off, back towards the rest of the Plegian army, with their dead king.  
  
From there, Plegia surrenders and gives back the Emblem and on paper, Ylisse won the war again. Rajni doesn't feel like celebrating but when Chrom takes her hand and raises it with his in victory, she forces a smile and says the victory is all of ours; we won this together, and the Shepherds raise their mead and toast to their hero-tactician and their commander. And then Sully claims she can out-drink Gregor and Basilio starts placing bets.  
  
She and Chrom leave the dining hall but they're right opposite the door, though nobody's looking that way. Chrom smiles at her, the soft, kind smile that makes his whole face look like it's saying _wow, I have the best friend ever, and I would not trade this for the world._  
  
_We make a pretty great team, Robin,_ he says.  
  
Rajni nods. She doesn't speak.  
  
_You don't seem too happy about the victory,_ he notices. _Is everything alright?_  
  
She swallows. _It's fine,_ she promises. _I wish we could've reached a truce._  
  
_But we won the war in the end,_ Chrom says. _So things will be different now._  
  
_It was your war,_ Rajni wants to say, but she doesn't. _I won it for you because that's my job, and you wouldn't like it if I told you this._  
  
Chrom, gently, reaches out and takes her hand. She wasn't expecting that— he's still looking at her like she's the best thing to ever happen to him since getting an unbreakable sword, and Rajni, for once, is caught off her guard.  
  
_I expect there'll be peace for a while yet,_ he says. _With luck, Plegia's new king is up to signing a peace treaty. My sister drafted many in her time, so there's no lack for us to use._  
  
_With luck,_ Rajni agrees.  
  
_So, I was thinking,_ Chrom says. In the low light, Rajni sees a blush on his cheeks. _Maybe we could…_ _Th-that is to say...  
_

_Chrom Grace, is this a confession?_ Rajni says, half-joking. She laughs it off, because she doesn't seriously expect anything of the sort-- Chrom is her superior, even if he is her friend. There are no anti-fraternization laws among the Shepherds because they're not a real army, but it doesn't feel right. She's left her Plegian royal title behind. _Rajni nir Dahira'mona_ is gone and she's Robin now, Robin the tactician, Robin the teacher, Robin the confidante, Robin the friend, Robin the hero. Robin is everything Rajni is not and Rajni only wishes she could shed her name as easily as she wants to. Even if there is no law against it, who could love _her?_

But even though Chrom chuckles, it's light and his cheeks are pink in the dim light. There's merriment through the archway, drinking and stories and songs and raucous laughter. The battle was a victory and they're toasting to Robin, to Robin, and Rajni is still getting used to the feelings of being appreciated, accepted. They want her to think, want her to give them orders, and it is in fact what keeps them all alive. She knows it. That doesn't make it any less strange.

 _I realize it's a bit out of the blue,_ Chrom admits. _I'm sorry, but-- I just couldn't sit on it any longer. I am... attracted to you. Romantically. Forgive me if I'm overstepping my bounds, of course. I don't want you to think you have to accept me because I'm the prince. But I've loved you for... well, I don't know how long, but I suspect it may be since those first battles together. Since then you've become so very, very important to me, not just because you keep my sorry derrière alive when I do something stupid but because you've taught me so much, because I feel like when I'm with you, I'm more than the prince of Ylisse. Like I'm-- I'm just a man, who can slip up and learn and love just like any other man in the world. I never realized until recently how much it means to me that somebody sees me as a person with flaws instead of a symbol for peace._

He swallows. _Emmeryn told me that once_ , he says. _That she loved Phila because while everyone else looked at her and saw a holy being above reproach and second to divinity itself, Phila saw an ordinary woman with fears and dreams beyond ruling. I didn't take it seriously at the time, but-- well, I was young. I thought many things that I now see are wrong. But I understand now, how she felt. And it's-- brilliant. Terrifying. Kind of like you._

Rajni doesn't know what to say. _Chrom, I..._ she trails off. She feels her face flush. _It can't be real,_ she thinks. Why would he love _her?_ Chrom is a man with sunshine for blood, with a headstrong drive to protect all he holds dear, with a voice that is strong enough to inspire his Shepherds to fight not because of orders but for all things good in the world. There are times when he speaks that he _does_ seem ethereal, as if the light bends around him in a perfect circle like the rings of light around the heads of Naga's messengers. He is all the good parts of the concepts of hope and justice and order and home. Until she heard him speak Rajni thought herself irredeemable, locked away in a dark forest of thorns inside her head while Robin is the mask that the Shepherds all love. But something about his conviction, his passion, cut through the thorns and Rajni felt something warming her core, feeling like the sun is warming limbs that have forgotten what heat was.

 _I realize it's unlikely you feel the same,_ Chrom begins. _I--_

 _Gods, Chrom, that's not it!_ Rajni interrupts. _I do, I-- I think I have for a long time, too. I've found myself in love with how radiantly fallible you are and the stupid little things you do. You hate tea but you'll drink it without complaint if someone invites you to. You always take steps two at a time even though sometimes it's a bad idea. You always hop over puddles instead of around or through them if you think nobody's watching. You pep-talk yourself in the mirror every morning. You hate blackberries because you think the seeds have no business being where they are. You're also stubborn and thick-headed and sometimes incredibly infuriating, and you have a habit of ignoring my notes and showing up an hour late to training, not to mention that you're extremely reckless in battle when someone near you is in danger, which could get you killed, you seem to forget. But I love that as much as I love your loyalty, your drive, your strength. And you make me feel--_ Her voice breaks. Can she really say it? All sources point to no but she plows onwards.

 _You make me feel like I don't have to be alone,_ she says. I _'ve thought for the longest time that I'd always just be on my own. That I'm too broken and too bitter to be anything more than only a presence, neither positive nor negative. But then you came in and I think-- I think that's not the way it has to be_. There are tears on her cheeks. She swipes them away with her thumb. That's all he needs to know-- he already knows the gist of the tragic first seventeen years of her life. She's nineteen now and she has learned so much in the time she's spent with Chrom, so much about love and about friendship and it makes her uneasy comparing what she has now to what her life was in Plegia. _Was it really so awful?_ she thinks. _Was I really so sheltered I thought that was normal?_ There are times she questions how she survived at all.

It's more personal than she's gotten with anybody before. But Chrom's eyes are shining, hands over his mouth, and Rajni has either made the biggest mistake or the best decision of her life.

 _So you accept me, then?_ Chrom whispers. _I didn't-- I didn't mess it up?_

She swallows. _If you'll have me, too,_ Rajni replies. And Chrom crushes her in a hug tighter than usual, tight enough Rajni's panic response almost kicks in and she has to fight the urge to whip out her knife and stab him in the armpit, but he eases and she rests her chin on his shoulder, and it's nice. Chrom's hands are on her waist and he pulls away and smiles, looking at her like he's thinking how lucky he is to have a friend like her.

 _I love you,_ he says, to make it official. _I love you, Robin-- uh, what's your last name?_

She scans her mind for a surname. _Hawke,_ she says.

 _I love you, Robin Hawke,_ Chrom says. _And it would make me the happiest man alive if we could be partners for the rest of our lives._  
  
An afterthought. _I'm…_ Rajni trails off. _I'm not Ylissean._  
  
_Does that matter?_ Chrom says, squeezing her hand but not hard enough that it hurts her. _Or… You know I don't care what anybody thinks. If they bother you for your nationality, then they answer to me._  
  
Rajni has to smile, just a little, and it's not particularly real but that doesn't matter. She reaches up and touches his cheek. He takes her hand and holds it there, and presses a kiss to her palm.  
  
_Then let's do it,_ he says, eyes sparkling in the low light. _Let's be in love._  
  
_Take the leap,_ some brave part of her she didn't know existed says. So she swallows, and smiles, and says, _alright, let's be in love._ And Chrom lights up like a Midwinter tree and pulls her into a hug so full of excitement and passion that it sweeps her off her feet, quite literally. His happiness is contagious, and truly, she is happy, but— _he's in love with Robin,_ she says to herself. _Don't ruin this for me,_ she replies to herself.  
  
But the image of a thunderbolt arcing through his dead body fills her mind, and where Chrom is filled with happiness, she feels fear clench around her heart. She buries her fingers in his hair and her face in his neck and prays it's only paranoia.  
  
It never is.


	12. Servitude and Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Mother said this was her family," he says, swallowing hard. "Aren't families supposed to stay together?"_
> 
> _It's that moment Aversa's heart breaks. "Oh, child," she says, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "This palace has held many things, but it has never held a family."_
> 
> The beast is too strong and Rajni tells Aversa to take the children and go-- but not all of them survive, and not all of them leave.

The palace still stands in August. It's hotter than usual, even for Plegia, but that has never stopped anyone. Marcus's language lessons from Saria have shifted to history and religion studies, and he hates it— _all these guys are dead, he says, so why do I have to learn about them?_ To which Saria always replies that _those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it,_ and that always makes him grumble but he returns to the book anyway.  
  
Rajni is queen, officially, since there is nobody living of higher status in the country. Technically the position would go to Rohan because he's the eldest, but Rohan wants nothing to do with ruling, thus it falls to Rajni. Everyone seems to know about Eris renting space in her head— and they're not shy about it. The Cult of Six-Wings, at least, revere and fear her as they would Grima, even if Eris is not Grima. Rajni, at least the part of her that still is Rajni, finds it strange. The people of Ylisse respected her as queen-consort, yes, but having both political and religious sovereign power is new.  
  
Marcus misses her. His mother is always away, in council with her advisors or dealing with some other matter, and it seems she rarely has time for him. And when she does and she's her, not Eris, it's different—  something in her has changed. She was always introverted and thoughtful but now there are periods of time she just holds a book in her hands and sits, not even reading it, staring into space. It seems like she's talking to herself, or arguing with herself— and she does talk to herself, when she's alone and has closed the door. Marcus hears her speaking Plegian angrily to herself, and then things smash and break like she's in a fight. She always emerges with her knuckles bloody and her shoulders lowered, and even though she smiles at Marcus and kisses his head and says she loves him, it feels hollow. He's ten now and tells himself he's old enough not to need it— but he still misses her.  
  
He misses his mother. He misses his father and his sister and his friends, too. He's made friends with Anya by now even though her idea of fun is exhausting and dangerous, but it's not the same— he wants to play silly make-believe adventure games with the Justice Cabal. He was always the heroic and clever mage that solved the puzzles and outsmarted the enemies, but sometimes the enemies are smart too, so he also shot fireballs. Owain always wanted to be the paladin hero, saving the day with his sword— the legendary blade of, uh… legend, Missletainn, he always said. He even labeled it, except he couldn't fit "the legendary sword of legend, Missletainn" on it, so he just borrowed his mother's ink and a brush and wrote Missletainn on the little wooden sword. And Nah was the dragon-thief that picked locks by biting them off, which was one way to do it, and she often saved the day with her magic-breath and flew the team out of tight spots, and Cynthia was always a heroic pegasus knight just like her mother was, sworn to protect the princes of her kingdom, Marcus and Owain, like both her mother and father before her. Marcus missed the games.  
  
He should've gone back by now, he thinks to himself as he's idly touching the tiny geode he was going to give to Nah and reading through a chapter of the history book. Saria sits at the table across from him in the courtyard, reading a book with raised lettering with her fingers. _But they've moved on by now, probably,_ he thinks. Maybe he'll go back someday, but there's no use anymore in thinking that coming to Plegia was anything but a permanent move. He's been here for over two years— two years and three months, almost four. It's the end of September, so almost two years and four months.  
  
The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Something is very wrong.  
  
"Do you feel that?" he asks, looking at Saria.  
  
She brushes her hair behind her ear, frowning. "Feel what?"  
  
"I dunno," Marcus admits.  
  
And then a scream pierces the air— it sounds at once human and animal, like something in immense pain that's held out for far too long. It turns the breath into a shaky rattle at the end, only to pick up again, and it's punctuated by half-sobs and choking gulps of air.  
  
Marcus vaults over the bench and sprints halfway to the source— the atrium, he thinks— and Saria grabs his arm and runs after him. His feet pound on the gravel and he takes the steps through the opened doors to the inside hallway in one jump (but he does make sure Saria takes both steps, just so she doesn't trip, and that her foot doesn't hit the doorjamb).  
  
Anya skids into view at the end of the hallway, bow in hand. _"Aav'ya yano te shayah!"_ she curses. "What was that?"  
  
"I don't know, I don't—" Marcus stammers. "Come on. Where's Peanut?"  
  
Anya shrugs, but looks pointedly at the doors to the atrium. "We'll find her later," she decides. "Let's just go, now. Something tells me it's an emergency."  
  
"No shit," Marcus mumbles under his breath, and Saria lightly smacks him for foul language. But he'll worry about that later, he decides. The three of them shove open the big atrium doors. The screaming is louder here, hurting, hoarse— coughing like the sheer volume is making the screamer's throat raw and bloody. Pain in the noise, sobbing, like a fight but with only one person.  
  
"Mother!" Marcus shouts, running towards Rajni, curled in the center of the room and taking shaking, heaving breaths. With frightening strength, she grabs his shirt and yanks him down to her level, her breathing heavy. She shakes, tears spilling down her cheeks— her eyes are flickering scarlet and four more eyes have opened in her face. Their lids tremble and it seems like they're cut into her skin as if by a knife but they're alive, moving, and Marcus feels sick. Blood drips down her face and Marcus wants to throw up.  
  
"Marcus," Rajni wheezes. "Oh, my son, my little boy, I love you so much—" she crushes him in a hug, rocking back and fourth. Her nails dig through his shirt.  
  
"Mother?" he asks, voice shaking. "What's wrong? I heard you screaming, and—"  
  
"It's the monster," she whispers. "Eris. She's— she's not going to sit around any longer, baby. She's in me, she's too _strong_ , I can't—" she wheezes— "I _can't_ —"  
  
Someone grabs him by the back of his shirt and yanks him back. Rajni falls forwards, but she claws at the stone floor, up her hands and arms, into her head. She grabs fistfuls of her white hair and pulls like it'll pull the monster out. She rocks— knees on the hard floor, breath heaving with pained sobs, she's in so much pain, so much pain—  
  
"Stay back," Rohan orders. "Your mother's not herself anymore."  
  
"But she's still in there," Marcus tries to say. "Uncle Rohan?"  
  
He scowls, unsheathing the tarnished steel of a sword long left unused. "I'm sorry, kid. This is the way it has to be."  
  
Marcus stares, unable to believe it. Rohan advances on his twin sister. Still shaking with the effort, she stares up at him. And she says, in a voice that is her own, "Do it."  
  
"No!" Marcus shouts. He barely registers when Aversa gently takes his arm and helps him up, pulls him back. He struggles, tries to pull away. _Please, no,_ he tries to say, but his throat closes up. _She's all I have left, she's the only family I know—_  
  
"She'll kill my dad!" Anya shouts, wiggling herself free from Aversa's grip. She pulls an arrow from her quiver and fires, and the arrow misses. She tries again and it bounces off Robin's knee, which she ignores. But Rohan looks back.  
  
"Just take them and go," Rohan calls. "There's no use reasoning anymore. The monster's out!"  
  
"I won't go!" Anya protests. _"Dad!"_  
  
"Go!" Rohan shouts. Rajni, shoulders arched and shaking, voice aching too much to scream anymore, awaits her death. He brings the sword down. Marcus can't look away.  
  
Except there's Rajni's hand, around the dull blade before it can hit her neck. Eyes glowing, all six, she growls and stands. Blood drips down her hand and arm. Marcus feels the cold fist of pure fear close around his core.  
  
"No harm will come to her," Eris snarls.  
  
"Bit late for that," Rohan replies.  
  
Eris roars, and somehow it sounds like the language that Rajni spoke when she made the shadows dance. Claws erupt from Rajni's fingers, fangs from her gums. Blood spatters on the stone mosaic.  
  
"No," Marcus whispers. His eye aches. He never wanted this. He never wanted people to hurt.  
  
Anya fires more arrows— she's using a child's bow and her hands are shaking, but one sticks itself in one of the eyes in Rajni's cheek. Eris shrieks in pain and Marcus hears his mother in there, somewhere. He's on his knees and Aversa is shaking his shoulder and trying to get him to _go, they have to go, it's not safe here anymore,_ but all he can do is watch.  
  
"None will harm her!" Eris roars. "She is my friend! You mortals have done enough to her— you are not worth the mud beneath her boots! You shall not lay a hand on her again!"  
  
Rohan swings his sword again. Eris ducks and deflects the blade with the dark scales growing out of Rajni's skin in patches. She lunges. Her claws grab a fistful of Rohan's shirt and tug. He kicks it away— the monster may have superhuman strength, and both the twins are tall and strong, but Rohan is bulkier and harder to smack around. Rajni's body rolls and skids on the stone.  
  
Anya is out of arrows. She drops her bow and draws a knife, and charges— _Anya, don't,_ Marcus wants to shout, but he can't. Aversa takes his arm and pulls him to his feet.  
  
"We have to go," she says to him. Marcus hears her for what is perhaps the first time. "There's no saving your mother now."  
  
"But she's still in there," Marcus says, voice choked with tears. He rubs his eyes but they start falling down his cheeks anyway. "Sh-she's still in there. Th-the monster is hurting her."  
  
Anya cries out in pain. The monster swatted her away like she's a fly— her back hits the wall and she crumples, her knife falling out of her hand. She doesn't get up.  
  
Rohan circles around and steps in front of his daughter, holding out his sword— nobody can tell if Anya is alive or dead, but Rohan isn't going to let any harm come to her either way. The monster is faster than Marcus's eyes can watch. She's there, then not. Her hand is in Rohan's chest and he falls to his knees and he did try to kill the beast before it took hold but he didn't succeed and Marcus thinks, _maybe if I hadn't interfered, uncle Rohan wouldn't have hesitated, and he and Anya would still be alive._  
  
He turns. Aversa doesn't look like she wants to leave— but there's Saria holding Peanut wrapped in her father's heavy coat near the doors, and Peanut has her tiny hands over her ears like she wants to block out the sounds of the monster even if the screaming has stopped.  
  
"Mother said this was her family," he says, swallowing hard. "Aren't families supposed to stay together?"  
  
It's that moment Aversa's heart breaks. "Oh, child," she says, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "This palace has held many things, but it has never held a family."  
  
It's the sad truth of the palace— she has seen rulers come and go, from those few during her early apprenticeship with Validar to her marriage with Gangrel before her daughter was born, to the chaotic days after the war when the dignitaries scrambled to put somebody on the throne and went through eight people in a week because they kept killing each other. And for all those power-grabbing kings, they had families, sometimes. Wives, sometimes one and sometimes a few, sometimes husbands. And children, less often, clans of bratty half-siblings that shriek and smack each other and pull hair, or sullen teenagers that skulk the halls like malcontented gargoyles and pretend to be more important to the running of the country than they actually are. But the kings and queens are all just puppets anyway; as long as Aversa can remember, Validar and the Cult have been pulling the strings since before the Great Siege.  
  
Marcus lowers his head. Poor child, Aversa thinks— his father dies, he's moved to another country with his mother without knowing it's because of the Mark in his eye, and here his mother is, torn apart and taken over by a monster that thinks its doing the right thing.  
  
He lowers his shoulders. Aversa thinks he's going to go with her, but he lifts his head, eyes blazing, and yanks his arm away. He runs towards his mother, the monster, and for a second she looks at him with eyes that are her own but they go back to glowing scarlet.  
  
"Marcus," Eris says. She observes as Marcus stops in front of her, clutching his tome.  
  
"I… I won't leave her," he says, as much to Eris and himself as much to Aversa. "S-so if... if you're keeping my mother in there, Eris, then you'll have to put up with me, too."  
  
Eris crouches. It pushes Marcus's messy blue hair aside, looking in his right eye— at the Mark, which almost seems to pulse with magic Marcus doesn't know about that he may not be able to control when it finally bursts out.  
  
"You have it," she says. "You have the blood, just as she did. What does the voice in your head say, child?"  
  
Marcus fidgets. "Nothing much," he says. "That I should hit things, mostly. And be angry."  
  
Eris hums. "It is new," it says. "You have much to learn, boy, you— _AGH_ —" Eris's face twists in pain. The eyes flutter again.  
  
"Marcus, what are you doing?" Rajni demands, in the voice that is her own. "I told you to go!"  
  
"I won't leave you, mother," Marcus says, steadfast.  
  
"Let me handle this," Eris hisses.  
  
"Don't hurt him, Eris— please," Rajni begs. She digs her nails into her arm. "Please, I'll do anything— just don't you _dare_ touch my son—"  
  
"I'm doing this for _you!"_ Eris roars. _"Let me do this for you!"_  
  
"I never wanted this," Rajni retorts. She sounds close to tears. "I never wanted people to die."  
  
Eris snarls. "Enough. This is what was meant to be, my sweet friend. You were never meant for— for a life with so-called _family_ that abuse and betray you! You were meant to be revered, worshipped! I will make it so _no one_ will hurt you again."  
  
She waits for a response from Rajni, but it never comes. She smiles a fanged smile, teeth sharp and lethal and bloody. It takes Marcus's shoulder, and says, "I will teach you all you need to know about the magic you possess— you could be great, you know. Unforgettable."  
  
Marcus's eyes widen. He looks back to Aversa, and gives her a big grin. "I'll be alright," he promises. "You go somewhere safe."  
  
Aversa doesn't want to leave him and break her promise to Rajni, but it seems she has no choice. She sends Rajni a final, mournful glance, and returns to Saria and Peanut. She takes Saria's hand and leaves through the big doors, and the swish of Saria's sand-colored skirt is the last Marcus sees of any of them.


	13. A Lullaby for Lost Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Saria waits with bated breath for her mother to knock on the door and say it's over, it'll be alright._
> 
> _Twelve— breathe in, breathe out. Thirteen— breathe in, breathe out. Fourteen— breathe in, breathe out. Fifteen. Nothing. Sixteen. Nothing. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Nothing._
> 
> Saria doesn't belong here, in this country of greens and blues and silvers, but what choice does she have now?

Air rushes past Saria's cheeks. She's not afraid of heights— hard to be if you can't see how far it is before you hit the ground— but the wind feels so different when it's rushing because mother is urging her pegasus to fly faster, just a bit faster, because they can't possibly get away from the castle fast enough. Because the Cult succeeded and Grima has returned in a mortal host, and it isn't safe there, not anymore. There's a tiny girl that lost her father and sister on the same day on Saria's lap wrapped in a faded silk coat bearing the Heirophant's seal and all Saria can think is how unfair it is.  
  
They stop to rest in a mountain grove once the sun dips below the horizon (the air up high turns golden when the sun heats it, even though her other side is cold), where the chill feels like an off-silver in the corners of Saria's skin— the crevices made by her elbows where they bend up when she hugs her arms and shivers, the bits where her nose meets her face, the lines in her palms, the corners of her eyes. They creep like frost on windowpanes during the night but not as wonderous because now she's the window and it's cold, and she shudders.  
  
Aversa pulls a cloak around her shoulders. It's the same kind of red-brown as the sun-baked tiles that pave Plegian roads, the same warm ruddy feeling of Peanut's little cheeks when Saria brushes away her tears. Saria touches it and it feels like when the sun is halfway-done setting and it's hot on her limbs. Even though the fabric is cool, it's a layer of warmth better than her dress.  
  
Peanut is asleep in her father's coat. The silk is warm, Saria knows— its color bothers her, because the texture feels like running her hands along the sandstone of the aqueducts in the city, but the magic running through it makes it feel violet, and the embroidery that pricks at her fingers if she runs her fingers down it the wrong way is obviously gold. Saria is sitting on a rock that feels like a cold grayish-blue with her hands on her bare knees and listening to her mother among shuffling buckles and straps and fabrics.  
  
"Saria," Aversa says. Saria feels silver next to her— metallic, nary-impenetrable, sharp as the edges of a dagger but adaptable as water pouring from a pump. She sounds tired, and it's a small wonder in Saria's mind as to why. Riding a pegasus for about five hours in a mad dash to get away from a literal god-in-a-mortal-body will do that.  
  
"Yes, mother?" she asks.  
  
Aversa presses something into her hands. It's metallic, like the brass doorknobs and handles in the palace that warm when Saria touches them, but lightning buzzes through it enough that her fingertips go numb. Saria thinks it's a sword at first, but as she traces her fingers along the blade, it zig-zags— seven points, she counts. And then there's the hilt, hard desert-tree wood with a grip of twine coated in a layer of laquer. A cloudy gem is set into the hilt. There's a singed piece of fabric tied to the hilt that feels familiar. She holds the sword in two soft hands which have never held a weapon before and wonders why her mother has given her a sword.  
  
"What is it?" Saria asks, because she honestly isn't sure about this gift. "And… I can't use swords, mother."  
  
"You don't need sight for this one," Aversa says. "This sword belonged to your father."  
  
Saria doesn't get the connection. "Was he blind, too?"  
  
"Blind to reason," Aversa mutters. She clears her throat. "No. But the sword is magic— it draws on the mana in your blood and turns it to energy. You don't need to aim when you have this."  
  
"Why do I need a sword?" Saria asks.  
  
Aversa is quiet for a long time. If Saria could see, she'd see Aversa fidgeting— adjusting the ties on her cloak, adjusting the scarf over her head, brushing her long, white hair behind her ear. But Saria can't, so she's just there, silver in motion among dusty blue and gray and white (always white, seeping into her pores, subtle enough she can ignore it. But the white has always been there, as long as she's known what loneliness feels like. Saria thinks it's unfair that she feels the white even when she's with her mother, but she does. Saria thinks many things are unfair).  
  
"I won't always be here," Aversa finally says. "There may not be anyone— I pray this is not the case, but there may come a day you have only yourself to rely on, and if that day comes, you need a way to protect yourself."  
  
"So father's sword will keep me safe?" Saria repeats.  
  
She hears the shuffle of Aversa shaking her head. "A weapon is a burden as much as it is protection. With it in your hands, you have the power to hurt, and it is both liberating and terrifying. You may say you want to protect others, but you will still be hurting."  
  
It's heavy stuff. Saria isn't sure what to make of it— before now, when Saria talks to her mother, it's usually about how her studying is going or interesting things she's felt during the day. She's gotten used to being on her own, even with Marcus there and with Rohan's children running around, because she can't exactly join in their games. There's joy in talking and singing to her little plot of land in the garden where she has her desert-dwelling flowers and succulents, and there's contentment in reading her books on history and religion and law and the arcane. She's nearly fourteen and, aside from the conversation with her mother about the things that persons with her type of parts go through, they haven't discussed anything deeper. Saria has not made her nurse call for her mother because she's scared of the monster beneath her bed since she was Peanut's age and has since learned that her mother is usually busy with Validar's paperwork every day and that she has someone diferent in her bed every night so it's best not to bother her. She's made peace with being on her own.  
  
She's not sure what to say. Aversa expects that. She pushes Saria's red hair out of her sightless eyes, making Saria turn in response to the touch.  
"Your father would be proud of you," she says.  
  
"Father was a hero, wasn't he?" Saria asks. "That's what the books say, even if he lost in the end. He started Plegia on a path to what was greatness, for awhile— I suppose for some, this is greatness. But if that's true, why would he be proud of me? I haven't done anything."  
  
"You've done plenty to make me proud," Aversa tells her, silver voice soft and almost tender— To Saria, it feels like floating in a lake, having the water lift up the back of her hair and caress the back of her neck and rub her shoulderblades. _You've become a sweet and kind person, you've kept your spirit and your smile intact, you haven't turned to temptation or greed, you know how to love and be loved without thinking that it's something painful or foreign,_ Aversa wants to say, and doesn't. "I knew your father well. We bickered constantly and we had our differences, but ultimately, he was the best friend I ever had."  
  
"Would he love me?" Saria asks.  
  
"He would," Aversa says, without hesitation. She knew Gangrel better than anyone— perhaps better than he knew himself— and for all the mistakes he made and how much he liked to think he was closed off and forbidden from such things, she knew he would love Saria. That went beyond the shadow of a doubt.  
  
Saria nods. She swallows, and runs her hand along the leather strap meant to go over her shoulder. She puts it around her neck and puts an arm through, letting it sit at her side like a satchel.  
  
Aversa wants to rub her shoulders, pull her into a hug, kiss her head— but she hasn't had that kind of contact with her daughter in years. Saria probably wouldn't welcome it now, of all times, she reasons. So she pats the back of Saria's hand and stands back up.  
  
"You ought to rest," she says. "It's a long way to Ylisse."  
  
"Why are we going to Ylisse?" Saria asks, scooting off the rock. "I thought Ylisseans hated people like us."  
  
It's a significant gamble and Aversa knows it. "If I knew Rajni," she says, "She didn't leave the people that took her in without some safety. It's the last chance we have."  
  
It's true. "What about you?" Saria asks. "If anyone's still there that remembers you, they might— might not— what if they think we're enemies?"  
  
"It's a chance we have to take," Aversa says. "Now rest. We're moving out early tomorrow."  
  
And Saria cannot disobey.

* * *

  
  
They travel for a day and a half. Aversa always scans the sky when they are on the ground and looks over her shoulder as if something is following them, lance in hand. There's a tome of dark magic and a tome of fire in her bag, but she won't use them— never again, she has told herself. (She asks herself why, sometimes, because it's a decision she made without knowing why. She hears ocean waves crashing on the shore and the crackling of torches, and people chanting cursed blood, child of sin, and feels a wave of sorrow and anger and regret so powerful it rivals the waves that smash onto the shore in her memory. She thinks that, once upon a time, the ocean was a comforting thing, a benevolent hand that kept the waves gentle for toddlers learning to swim and that blessed the fishermen with bountiful hauls, but she's not sure anymore.)  
  
_Ne-da a-ya ilo ba,_ Peanut sings when they walk. _Ilo a-ya aje-yah. Ne-da a-ya ija ma, ija a-ya ba-na-na!_ And again, and again, little fists curled into balls, marching along the paths with her father's coat trailing in the dirt behind her. It's a nursery rhyme about a crane and a banana, and it's about the hungry crane looking for something to eat. The banana says no, no, you can't eat me, and the crane doesn't listen, and eats the banana, peel and all. There are more verses about the crane meeting more vegetables (a sweet potato, a lime, and a pepper) and not listening to it when it says no, no, you can't eat me, and eventually the crane meets a crocodile that says you've eaten so much, and you look delicious. The crane says no, no, you can't eat me, but the crocodile does anyway. Perhaps it's because Aversa learned the song as a teenager instead of as a young child, but it's never made much sense to her— what is it trying to say, that vegetables have feelings and if you eat them, you'll get eaten by a crocodile? Perhaps Aversa isn't the best spokesperson for what healthy upbringings are like, but that doesn't seem like the type of thing you want to tell a child.  
  
They first encounter the undead monsters when they're about a day's walk from Ylisstol, camping on the outskirts of a little village on the road called Riverot. (Whether it's pronounced _river-oh_ or _river-rot_ or _riv-rot_ or _riv-air-oh_ or any other unforseen phonetic hassle, Saria will never know.) The village is abandoned, but the forge still works, so Aversa tells Nyx to stay put outside and gets the fire going for Saria and Peanut.  
  
Saria traces the edges of her father's sword. Her fingers feel numb with electricity. It's violet, she thinks, but then again, her fingers are numb, so she can't tell. That's frustrating.  
  
"Zigzag!" Peanut declares, looking at the sword. "Flunder? It goes like this!" She points her little finger in zapping directions.  
  
"It's not literal thunder," Saria replies. "It just shoots it."  
  
"Can I see?" Peanut asks.  
  
"No, you can't," Saria tells her.  
  
Peanut pouts. "I wanna see! Peas?"  
  
"No, it's dangerous," Saria insists. Peanut scrunches up her face— she said 'please,' so why isn't she getting her way? Life is so unfair.  
  
Saria's ears prick up. Shuffling, groaning, outisde the village. She grips her sword tighter.  
  
"Mother," she says. "There's something outside."  
  
Aversa grabs her lance, getting to her feet. "I'm going to investigate. Stay here, both of you— bar the door, and don't let anyone in for anything until I'm back."  
  
Saria nods. She closes the shutters of the window and bars the door once her mother leaves, and she hears Nyx snuffling and trotting on the cracked cobblestones. The fire in the forge crackles orange and Saria can pretend what it might've been like when people lived in the village— but now everyone is gone and there's only unmade beds and dusty curtains fluttering in the breeze, discarded toys in the dirt and tables set for dinner. The air is dusty gray here, gritty on Saria's fingertips, like loose sand rolling across her feet when she's in the city and the last lingering gusts of sandstorms. But the sand is finer here, and it has a layer of ivory-white like ground-up bone bleached in the unforgiving sun. Saria has tried not to breathe in too deeply here.  
  
Saria hears muffled grunting through the shut windows. Brownish shuffling on the stone, and sounds like weapons, steel-silver and the dull greenish of bronze, clashing off each other. The orange-yellow-white whoosh of fire shot from a hand. Nyx's hooves, black on cobblestone, neighing. Splattering red sounds and purple hissing like acid and dying groans of undead monsters. And the smells— eye-wateringly sour smells of sulfer, fumes a nauseating shade of yellow-green, and the reddish rusty tang of blood that Saria knows from scraped knees and nosebleeds. Acid that hits her nose and makes her regret breathing in. Subtler, the smells of burning and steel.  
  
She holds the handle of her sword in her hands, and she prays— she prays with a fervor she has never needed until now, praying, _if I live through this, if ama lives through this, I'll never doubt again. I'll accept all those old Grimleal stories as true and not stories and I'll never ever again even think that there are no gods anymore, oh, sky above, if I live to see tomorrow then I'll never tell another lie or take another day for granted, just let this turn out okay._ She's sitting with her back to the stone wall of the forge and feeling the fire heat her front, and Peanut is next to her in her father's dirt-covered coat, her baby gown smudged with ash and dirt from travel, tiny shoes stained with mud. And Saria prays.  
  
Eventually the sounds stop, and Saria counts. One— breathe in, breathe out. Two— breathe in, breathe out. Her heartbeat is loud in her ears and it sounds too fast but she can't tell, and she just hopes, prays, that everything is alright. Saria waits with bated breath for her mother to knock on the door and say it's over, it'll be alright.  
  
Twelve— breathe in, breathe out. Thirteen— breathe in, breathe out. Fourteen— breathe in, breathe out. Fifteen. Nothing. Sixteen. Nothing. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Nothing.  
  
Sixty-eight. Nothing.  
  
One hundred and forty-four. Nothing.  
  
Three hundred and twelve. Nothing.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Four hundred and nothing and she stands, knees shaking, gripping her sword.  
  
"You gonna go see?" Peanut asks, cautious.  
  
"You stay here, Peanut," Saria says. "I'll be back soon. I'm gonna go find ama, and then I'll be back. Stay here."  
  
"Stay here," Peanut repeats. "But… go see? Can I go see?"  
  
"No, you stay here," Saria says again.  
  
"I wanna go see," Peanut insists.  
  
"No, you stay," Saria replies. "Can you do that for me, please, Peanut?"  
  
She thinks for a minute, as if grading how good that 'please' was on a scale of one to however high it is she can count. "I stay," Peanut says. Sighing in relief, Saria nods. She unbars the door and opens it, tapping the front step with her cane to check for anything in her way.  
  
"Mother?" she calls, cautiously. The acid-soaked cobblestones squish under her cane, so she avoids that part of the road. She feels no silver. Everything has started to grow white at the edges of her perception. "Mother? _Amayah_?"  
  
Nothing. What was her number? She breathes in again— four hundred and one. Breathe out. Nothing.  
  
_"Ama,"_ she calls, even though she hasn't called her mother 'ama' since she was four years old. Fear starts to close around her core, cold and white and empty. She wants nothing more than to take Peanut and run out of this town, out of this place that feels like death and sadness and abandonment, all the way back to Dahiri and Plegia where she belongs. These grass-covered hills and babbling streams are perhaps kind to the green and blue creatures that live amongst them, but she is a daughter of orange and violet and crimson and she cannot shake the feeling that she doesn't belong. But she calls _"Ama? Ama?"_ despite a sinking in her gut that she won't get an answer. She feels the way she did when she was a little girl and thought there was a monster in the darkness around her that she couldn't see and could swear she heard something slithering or hissing or that she felt breathing on the back of her neck. She feels the whiteness spreading like freezing water expanding to crack boulders. Back then she was always too scared to move even though her skin tingled with the urge to run, run as far away from the monster as she could and run into her ama's arms-- but her ama was busy and she'd get scolded if she bothered ama this late, so she stayed, and trembled, and tried to remember how it was ama always made the monsters go away.  
  
Tears sting when they drip down her cheeks. Her cane catches on something— something long and hard that rolls when she pokes it. She jumps back, startled, and then crouches to investigate closer.  
  
It's a shaft of something, she learns. It feels well-made but worn, and she traces her hand up to the heavy end of it. Metallic silver fills her mind and she nearly cuts her finger on the edge. This one is covered in drying blood that makes Saria's hands feel red. She wipes it off on her skirt and pokes her cane further forwards.  
  
Her cane hits something soft. Though everything in her screams _don't, don't touch it, run away now and wait for ama to come back even though she may not,_ she reaches out to touch it.  
  
Silver explodes in her mind. It's the water dripping from icicles in the cold storage in the kitchens and it's the silvery scales of fish and snakes she plays with sometimes, and it's the water that flows through her fingers when she trails her hand through the pond; it's the sound this country's streams make when they babble and how it feels when she puts her hand into it and touches the pebbles; it's the smooth surface of mirrors and polished blades when she touches the flats; it's also kind words of encouagement when she talks about something she's having difficulty understanding and it's the hand that tucks her hair behind her ear and it's the lips pressed to her forehead every now and again and it's the arms that held and carried her when she was young and before they grew apart. Saria's heart clenches and cold runs down her spine. Everything feels much colder now. Her throat closes up. She can't feel the silver anymore. She has the horrible thought that if she hadn't waited so damned long she would've been able to hear her mother's last words.  
  
Her ears prick up when she hears Peanut's baby shoes on the stone. "Road gone melted," she says to Saria. "Yuck. Baba? You fell?"  
  
Saria swallows. "Peanut?"  
  
"Peanut," Peanut repeats, toddling to Saria's side. "Oh. Is… your ama okay?"  
  
"No," Saria says.  
  
"Oh," Peanut says again. Her voice sounds smaller. Peanut is three years old and keeps waiting for her dad and her sister to come back, but she knows enough to tell that something very sad has happened and it doesn't seem like the type of sad that toys will fix.  
  
Saria wants to cry and finds she can't. It'd be easier if there were someone there to help her stand and tell her it's okay, let's go home now, except she can't go home even if she had a map because it's not like she can see it and Peanut can't even read, and she doesn't know where Ylisstol is because she can't read any of the signs that surely point to the country's capitol, and her best guess is that she has to follow the road until there's something to tell her she's on the right path. Surely someone, somewhere, is still alive, right?  
  
"What's gonna happen to your ama?" Peanut asks. "When's she gonna be done lying down?"  
  
"That's not how it works," Saria croaks. "She's dead. We can't move her, so she's gonna stay there forever."  
  
Peanut doesn't seem to understand. "But we were all gonna go together, to the city," Peanut says. "How we gonna do that now? How we gonna go to the city together?"  
  
Some part of Saria can't believe that she's going to have to be the one to explain death to a three-year-old. She sighs.  
  
"It'll be okay," she says, more for Peanut than for herself. "I'll take us there."  
  
"What happens to you an' me, baba?" Peanut asks.  
  
Saria swallows. "We'll be okay," she promises, though she doesn't know how true that is. "We'll get to the city and it'll be safe there."  
  
Peanut doesn't believe her, because Saria is a terrible liar, even if all she's doing is telling half-truths and ommitting details. She knows full well that speak not words without truth is the first pillar of Grimleal but how can she speak words with truth when she can't even face the truth now for what it is? She's fourteen and has lost her mother and thinks this is what being alone truly feels like despite having felt it in the past, and it's only her first apocalypse.  
  
Hoofsteps in the distance, getting closer. But Saria doesn't hear them because the blood rushing in her ears is so loud and Peanut tugs on her sleeve and until she says "Baba, there's people coming," the whiteness is powdery and barren and choking and dries out her eyes too much for her to cry even if she feels the aching, empty pit in her chest that comes when sobs start to heave themselves out of her chest. She feels like if she could just cry until her throat was raw and her eyes ran out of tears, she'd feel much better, but she can't and it's not fair. But then, she notes bitterly, what does the world care about fairness?

* * *

  
  
The Ylisseans arrive on the outskirts of the village not a minute later, led by none other than Knight-Captain Frederick himself. He sits astride a great black warhorse with a pedigree longer than most noble houses but everyone just calls the horse Caine because that's a name that's a bit easier to remember. His hair may have grayed since the last time he fought in a war, but that doesn't mean he's not ready to fight in another as long as he still draws breath.  
  
He scans the town from his horse. "A battle took place here," he says to his lieutenant, Dagen. Knight-Lieutenant Dagen looks marginally disappointed that they won't get to kill more waves of Risen, but he'll have plenty of opportunities to do that later. "You can smell the stink of the undead in the air."  
  
Knight-Lieutenant Dagen sniffs the air, and smells sulfur and molten cobblestone. He nearly gags. "Yes, sir," he says. "Orders?"  
  
Frederick looks over to Head Scout Anson. "You there, scout. Have your people scan for resources and collect samples of the stone for the mages to study. Lieutenant, form flanks. I want no nasty surprises while we're stopped here."  
  
Dagen and Anson salute and give orders to their people. Frederick himself nudges Caine forwards, hooves loud and clopping on the stone. He smells ash and death amidst the sulfur of the fallen Risen. Houses stand empty, doors opened and tables half-set, as if everyone had simply vanished. But the mangled corpses weathering in the weak sunlight tells otherwise.  
  
He dismounts and pets Caine's neck. _Who's a good warhorse?_ he thinks, though he doesn't say it. Hefting his sturdy silver lance in his hand, he takes another look around the area on foot. His feet kick up clouds of ash and dust. He doesn't like this place— the smoke smell is too thick and it's making his cough start up. He coughs, and pounds on his chest through his breastplate with the heel of his hand. It doesn't help. He'll have to see if the infirmary has his tonic ready when he returns to the Garrison.  
  
Smoke, though? How odd. And smoke is, indeed, coming in swaths from the chimney of the town forge. It's a stone building with shutters coated in chipped red paint, and a door that is shut firmly. What sticks in his mind is that the dead cannot light furnaces, so either a fire has burned in this town since everyone in it perished, or someone is alive in there. He's going to assume the first but hope for the second, and pray for a miracle.  
  
He knocks on the door with the butt of his lance. "If anyone in there is alive," he says. "Speak now whether you are enemy or ally to Ylisse."  
  
Nothing. He knocks again. "Speak," he demands. "I will break the door down."  
  
Still nothing. Ah well, he tried. He jabs the blade of his lance into the door and breaks through the old wood, cracking off the handle and through the bar on the other side like it's splinter-filled butter. The door swings open on rusty hinges, parts of the bar falling to the ground.  
  
It's warm inside. The heat of the furnace, when compared with the cold outside, blasts him in the face. It's burning the pieces of an old chair, likely, smashed apart on a wall. Nothing unusal, as far as forges go, aside from the tiny figures in the corner.  
  
They're Plegian, and one's thunderbolt-shaped sword glitters and crackles in the firelight. Her hands tremble. She can't be more than thirteen. A toddler in a coat meant for a grown man is tucked into her side, staring up at him with big, gray eyes wide in the orange glow of the furnace.  
  
His first thought is _spies_ — then he thinks, _no, that can't be right. You know full well that the last Plegian you thought was a spy ended up being queen-consort of Ylisse. You're better than this, Frederick._ The fact that they're a young teenager and a baby does not factor into this. Were he to rationalize it (which he wouldn't, given that he has children of his own and it seems highly unlikely), he'd say he wouldn't put it past Plegia to employ children as spies, if they are in fact employed. But that's more than a little unlikely and considering that the Garrison has soldiers as young as fourteen, are they that much better?  
  
He crouches. "You won't be harmed," he promises, because he's pretty sure that was Ylissean protocol for taking prisoners before Emmeryn took the throne and made it clear she detested the idea of prisoners of war. ( _Spare who you can,_ she always said. _If they are surrendering or badly wounded, then let them go. There is no honor nor mercy in kidnapping another country's soldier._ It was one of those things she said very early in her rule when she still had eyes that blazed with blue fire fueled by righteous fury at her father for leaving his mess for her to clean up, before she learned to seal them behind impassable bastions and merely go through the motions of feeling.)  
  
The girl in the corner doesn't speak. She's not looking at him— her eyes are pale and pointed straight in front of her, but the child tucked into her side still stares. He can't tell if she's afraid or curious— perhaps both.  
  
"Can you understand me?" he asks, almost as an afterthought. Robin hadn't understood a word of common-tongue when Chrom found her in the field, and these two appear to be the same nationality. He could be wrong, of course, but it's a valid question. There are many languages out there, and those without need tend not to learn common.  
  
The girl mumbles something. Frederick quirks an eyebrow. "Pardon me, miss?"  
  
"There's a woman's body out there," she repeats, louder. "It's fresh."  
  
"Indeed, I did see a fresh corpse outside," Frederick says. "Why do you say this, if I may ask?"  
  
"Her name was Aversa," the girl says. "She wasn't a nameless casualty. Her name was Aversa."  
  
That name sounds familiar but Frederick won't question that yet. "I will see to it she is properly lain to rest," he promises. "Was she close to you?"  
  
The girl nods. The small child leans up and whispers something into her ear, and the girl seems to take that into consideration.  
  
"I doubt it's safe here, miss," Frederick says. "More and more of the dead have been bursting from the ground. Even with your sword, you cannot fight them all."  
  
She stays silent. Clearly this girl is a tough nut to crack.  
  
"There is a place for you at the Garrison," he promises. "You and your daughter will be safe and taken care of." Or is the tiny child not her daughter? The girl doesn't confirm or deny.  
  
New angle. "There's food," he coaxes, not unlike he would an uncooperative child. "My son, Teddy— he's an excellent baker, and his gingerbread is quite famous around the Garrison for how good it is."  
  
"What's a gender-bed?" the child pipes up.  
  
"It's, a," Frederick pauses, trying to explain it. "It's a sweet crumbly bread that's just a bit spicy, and people here eat it when it's cold outside."  
  
"Why not when it's warm?" the child asks. "Is it not good when it's warm?"  
  
"Well, it makes the weather feel warmer when you eat spicy food in the summer," he explains. "So when it's cold outside and you want to be warm, you eat spicy foods."  
  
"Why's the sweet bread spicy?" the child continues. "How come? Baba, I wanna eat the spicy sweet bread." She tugs at the older girl's dress sleeve with her tiny hands. "Baba, I wanna eat it. Baba, can we? Can we go eat the spicy sweet bread? Baba, can we?"  
  
She sighs. "Fine," she caves. "You can eat the spicy sweet bread. _Hen'nah aajyah ita madayo, baba."_  
  
She pulls herself to her feet, tugging her too-big cloak further around her shoulders. The small child hands her a long, slender piece of wood with a braided-string strap that goes around her wrist. The sword hangs on a strap at her hip like it's a bag. Frederick feels better now that she doesn't look ready to stab him with it, because it looks like it'd hurt.  
  
"You won't be hurt," Frederick promises. "I will see to it."  
  
"Don't forget," the girl says, lifting the small child onto her hip. "Her name was Aversa."  
  
"I won't forget," Frederick promises. And he doesn't.


	14. Unforgettable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Marcus nods. "Are we the good guys?" he asks. "Or… is this one of those stories where there are no good guys?"_
> 
> _"When are there ever good guys, boy?" Grima snorts._
> 
> Marcus is ten and until fairly recently there wasn't anything for his monster to feed on-- until fairly recently he was just a young boy with a mark in his eye that made him tell the truth. But Rajni will not last forever, so desperate times call for desperate measures.

The castle seems colder since the monster took over, even though there are cultists in their dark hooded robes (why is it always dark hooded robes?) walking through the castle halls to present offerings but not all of them leave. Eris is not interested in offerings and she has a short temper for those who insist on the stifling formalities. The cultists approach Marcus sometimes and ask him in Plegian (always in Plegian) something about his own dark destiny and he always just shrugs with a practiced bored stare exactly like one would expect of a ten-year-old prince constantly told he'll be Above The Rest someday, mostly because he doesn't know fuck-all of what they're saying. They talk too fast like they're afraid of him and the red voice in his brain says _yes, good, they should fear us— one day they will grovel to you, too, prince of darkness._  
  
_I don't_ want _them to be afraid of me,_ he tries to tell the voice.  
  
_You don't have a choice, little prince,_ the voice replies. _But wouldn't you rather be treated like a prince than like what you were in your old life?_  
  
_I liked my old life,_ Marcus protests. _I had friends and we played make-believe, even if it was silly, it was still a lot of fun._  
  
_What did they really think of you, though?_ the voice ponders. If it were real, it'd be pacing, hands behind its back. But it's not, it's a mass of scarlet fibers somewhere in the back of his mind. _Children can be cruel, you know— and you know this firsthand. What did you hear those other children say, a few years ago?_  
  
_They're not like that,_ Marcus insists, weakly. But something in him buys into it— the other noble boys he met at those parties where he had to wear tight things around his neck and shoes that pinched his toes all looked him up and down like they were learning how to be snotty and judgemental from their teenage sisters that spent too much time looking at fashion magazines and secretly hating their friends. They'd associate with Owain because he was _all-Ylissean_ and not a _half-breed_ and then look at him with mild disgust once he started talking about his sword hand, and they skirted around Lucina and looked with a mixture of fear and loathing because she was next in line to be Exalt but also half-Plegian and wore trousers despite being a girl, which according to them was Not What Girls Were Supposed To Do. But Marcus had no protection of being the heir or of being the right nationality.  
  
But he was still the prince and he'd be the Exalt should anything happen to his sister, so they had to at least pretend to be nice to him. But Marcus, even at five and six, could see the way they side-eyed him when they talked amongst themselves, throwing around words like _half-breed_ and _spy_ and _Plegian snake._ _I don't want to play with you because you keep insulting my mother,_ he said to them once, and the ringleader, a rat-faced boy named Garrett, said _then who are you going to play with, your highness? Because it doesn't look like anybody actually cares._ And Garrett had turned on his heel and led his group away, and left Marcus to sit with that and stew. And oh, it stewed.  
  
_Fuck you, Garrett,_ he thinks, but it doesn't have the vitriol he wants it to. Something tells him there are bigger problems in his life than a childhood bully, and Garrett is probably dead now anyway.  
  
_It's a harsh thing to confront,_ the voice says. _But that's how people are. Nobody cares until you make them care, and once you stop actively making them care about you, they'll forget you like you're yesterday's news. Unless you make it so, you do not matter._  
  
Marcus doesn't have it in him to protest. He hands the letter he's sending to his mother's favorite messenger raven, Chancellor Cawdsworth, and it's too late now to open it up and take everything he said back. He hopes— especially with what the voice in his head is saying— that Nah won't just throw it away because she's forgotten about him. Or what if she's scared of him? What if Marcus did the unthinkable and scared her, _hurt_ her?  
  
_Boy, you are on a path to godhood,_ the voice says. _They deserve to fear you— with the power you can obtain, you can choose anyone in the world to be your 'friend' and they can't say no. They'll never be able to forget you that way._  
  
_I don't want to hurt Daisy,_ he protests. _I don't want to hurt any of my friends. They've been through enough because of this stupid magic and none of them ever asked for any of it._  
  
_This magic may be stupid, but it is yours,_ the voice replies, cooly even though Marcus thinks it feels painfully warm and angry. _You can't delude yourself into thinking you aren't a little curious._  
  
It's true. He sighs. His hands are in his pockets as he walks back to his haunt in the library. _I want to know about what I can do, but I don't want to hurt anybody,_ he thinks. _I want people to remember me, but I don't want to scare them. What do I do?_  
  
_Pick up that book that grandfather gave you,_ the voice says. Marcus looks at the tome, bound in old purple leather, sitting on a table. The writing is so old and in some ancient dialect of Plegia that not even Saria, who Marcus is pretty sure knows everything, could read the embossed letters.  
  
But he can read it now. "Necronimus?" he says aloud. _What's that?_  
  
_Open it,_ the voice orders. Marcus takes the tome in his little hands and sits down on one of the couches, stepping out of his leather sandals before folding his legs. _No shoes on the furniture,_ mama always said.  
  
He opens it. The pages flip to the center of the book, but they're all blank— and then the book projects a world map in the air in front of him, an image made of purple light all woven together. His eyes widen.  
  
He asks the voice what to do next, but it says nothing. Marcus frowns, and looks in his hand— a writing utensil appears, like a pencil but entirely smooth and made all of light. Experimentally, he reaches out and touches the image with the pen, in the ocean between the continents of Valm and Akanea.  
  
From an island off the northwest coast of Plegia, labeled _Origin Peak_ in tiny, flowing writing, red lines spread across the world. They're denser in some places than in others, but they're present all around the world except on another island northeast of Ylisse— _Mount Prism,_ the script reads. He touches again, and blue lines spread from Mount Prism and interweave with the red. It's beautiful, in a way. Like blood vessels in a body.  
  
Magical leylines, he knows. The invisible lines that carry magic that run beneath the ground and in the air. The red and blue must be Dark and Light, canceling one another out but never overpowering the other.  
  
Marcus touches the dot labeled _Dahiri_ in Plegia. The map changes to one of the city— a three-dimensional layout of all its sprawling buildings and mess of levels. By pointing the pen, he can change his view of the city, from viewing the water in the canals and aqueducts to soaring from the highest towers. If he taps on doors, they open. If he taps on stacks of crates, they fall over. The people he sees, little shapes made of white light, always react, too, and jump back in surprise when Marcus taps on what they're carrying and makes them drop it. He finds Chancellor Cawdsworth in the air with his letter, but before he can tap his form, the bird squawks and flaps away. Birds, clearly, can sense this sort of thing.  
  
He zooms into the castle, knocking over furniture and slamming doors and rattling light fixtures. He shakes a tree in a courtyard to knock down fruit onto the head of a scholar that's reading below it and laughs, because the scholar rubs his bald head and scowls. He knocks over a cultist in the throne room, and for a moment he's caught off-guard because there's a red being in the shape of his mother, all her soft curves and her hair up behind her head, twin daggers at each hip, her coat hanging off the side of the throne because it's too hot to wear it. But it's not his mother, it's Eris, and he decides he's not going to mess with Eris.  
  
He moves in to the library. There he is, mostly white but there's red light coming from his eye, and when he zooms in on his own face, it's like looking in some strange kind of mirror. He touches his Marked eye with the pen and feels something stab his eye— he recoils, clutching his eye, and decides he's not going to do that again.  
  
He knocks a few books off the shelves— easy. Then he picks them up, one by one, and puts them back. Cleaning up has just gotten so much easier. Just to see if he can, he takes three and tries to juggle them, and fails.  
  
That gets boring, so he zooms out again. He's tracking Chancellor Cawdsworth through the sky when Eris slams the door open.  
  
"You've opened the tome," Eris says. Marcus doesn't think he'll ever get used to hearing his mother's voice tripled and all coming out of one throat.  
  
Marcus looks up. "Yeah." _What're you gonna do about it,_ he wants to say, but doesn't.  
  
Eris, arms folded, watches Marcus zoom out to the world map. "Go to an aerial view of the Garrison in Ylisse."  
  
Marcus does so. The Garrison walls and surrounding grounds are protected with a magical barrier lit up in blue. "Why?" he asks. "What's so important over there?"  
  
Eris does not answer. "Touch the ground outside the walls."  
  
Marcus does. A little red dot appears. _R. Commander,_ it says. The dot is circled in another line of red. He furrows his eyebrows and does it again— this one is smaller and says _R. Soldier._  
  
"Summon the Risen in waves," Eris says. "Break through the barrier they've put up. You are a tactician, are you not, boy?"  
  
"But, wait—" Marcus protests. "Why are we attacking the Garrison? What did they do wrong? And don't Risen kill people?"  
  
Eris glares at him. "Do what I say."  
  
Marcus feels slightly sick, but he can't disobey. He draws a line of soldiers in the front, flanked by shields and backed up with archers. He puts emmisaries well-protected in the center, and fliers at the corners. They do nothing until a list of options pops up where he taps his pen— _attack, item, inventory, rally, wait._ He drags to select all of the archers, and selects _attack_.  
  
He can almost hear the Garrison attack bell when the arrows fly at the walls. Soldiers, little white dots, flood from the gates. Marcus summons more Risen from the ground and tells them to charge. The Garrison shields hold the line. The Garrison commander hoists a staff and casts a ward around the battlefield, and the little bars beneath the Risen dots deplete by just a tiny bit.  
  
Under other circumstances, Marcus would've squealed in excitement— like the tactics games he and his mother played with dice and wax dots, but in real time with real things and real variables, like the weather and terrain, and crazy spells he could see happening! But although his eyes widen, he can tell this isn't an occasion to be excited about.  
  
"Win the battle," Eris says. "They will retreat eventually. Every battle, we reduce their numbers. Eventually they will have no choice but to surrender, and stop being pains in my side."  
  
Marcus nods. "Are we the good guys?" he asks. "Or… is this one of those stories where there are no good guys?"  
  
"When are there ever _good guys_ , boy?" Eris snorts. "Mortals are all dogs, barking and spitting at one another over petty things like land and resources. They fight and spill blood like animals and create history and tradition to distract themselves from the truth. All they do is fight and mate and teach their offspring to fight, and eventually strip this world of its precious resources despite how selflessly it gives them their magic. In the end, they are naught but _dust_ to be wiped off of a blade, with their silly rituals and false gods."  
  
Marcus is too scared to respond. He stares, eyes now wide in abject horror, as Eris continues.  
  
"Even you and I," she continues. "There is no such thing as a Grima, boy— merely an absentee figure ascribed appearance and gender by mortals afraid of the dark. We are embodiments of the darkness in the hearts of mortals, not descendants of any gods. Those foolish cultists will simply not hear any truth but the one that gives them comfort at night. They failed to summon Grima and instead got me, Eris-- and if that doesn't prove that gods are merely what mortals make them, I don't know what will."  
  
"We are the ones who do what must be done," Eris says, tucking her hands behind her back. "This world has suffered enough. _Rajni_ has suffered enough. I will see a world where nothing can harm her— a world where mortality is an illusion and there is nothing but the magic of the world itself. Nothing will hurt her again."  
  
"Why do you care so much about my mother?" Marcus has to ask. Frankly, it seems a little creepy to him.  
  
"Nobody else did," Eris says simply. "Is that not true for yourself as well, on some level?"  
  
Marcus feels something cold run down his spine. He zooms in on the battle and watches his aunt Lissa, axe in hand, cut down Risen after Risen. Lucina is at her side, taller and stronger and wielding Falchion like she was born to it, blood on her face and muck on her boots and trousers. Marcus doesn't want to hurt them.  
  
But, he thinks. Did they ever really care? Do they deserve mercy from him now, when they don't seem to care at all about him?  
  
_No_ , Marcus decides. So this time, he'll win the battle for certain.  
  
He curls a fist around the tiny geode in his pocket. Maybe if he wins, and if he can succeed in helping Eris make this vision of a perfect world, he can protect the people that do care.


	15. Blistering Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I couldn't have said it better myself," a new voice says— it's louder, more confident, and it's blue. "Anybody could die at any moment. All we can do is support one another while we're still alive."_
> 
> _Do you always sound like you're giving an overblown speech to a crowd of adoring followers? Saria thinks._
> 
> Loneliness remains even amongst new people.

The hardest thing to get used to, Saria thinks, is the food.  
  
The accents are fine. Even if everybody speaks too quickly for her to quite catch everything, and if they say strange phrases made of words that make sense individually but not in that order, she'll get used to it. She'll get used to the cleric's uniform— they tell her it's green but it feels like a tough, durable brown like if wood were thin enough to be woven into fabric, and there's a little bit of silver in it with the little dual-wing emblem over her chest, and she'll get used to having to pull the mask over her face when she's in the infirmary and someone pulls out a sloshing something that pierces and then numbs her nostrils if she breathes it in. (They didn't do that in Plegia and she wonders why they're not just using magic to heal.) The uniform probably isn't that bad, and at least it's not dirty and smeared with blood like her old dress, but even if it's new, she'll get used to it. As far as things go, all of this— the new accents, the rush of new colors, the new complex of buildings that she has to have someone guide her around, the new tasks she has, all of this she'll get used to.  
  
She will not ever, _ever_ get used to the food.  
  
In Plegia, there was always food— something or other, because Plegians have adapted to living in the desert and even if the Six-Wings are running the country on a platform of reviving a long-dead dragon god, at least they make sure to keep trade running across the country and have kept things balanced fairly well. Saria thinks that it's at least partially because they've been running the country behind the scenes, with seamless changes in leadership, for several generations, but whatever they're doing, it's working. Unlike Ylisse, which appears to have collapsed in on itself with the demise of it's patron god, Plegia is doing just fine.  
  
The thing about the food, however, is that Ylissean cooking appears to be putting everything into a big pot and letting it stew until it's all a uniform gray color— thick and hearty, sure, and because of sensory integration and suchlike it'd probably be more palatable if Saria could see it, but to her it's all gray and it all tastes like glue. Even the bread, somehow, tastes gray, like adding yeast to it ruins it. Peanut says the gingerbread tastes good, but Saria has had her taste buds betrayed once and doesn't trust any Ylissean "food." The rest of Ylisse, she can get used to, but not this. One has to draw the line somewhere.  
  
Her guide to the Shepherd's Garrison is this tiny, frail presence in a dim crimson color named Noire, who is eleven and stutters and sniffles every other sentence like the air itself is giving her allergies, and even Saria's keen ears can barely pick up on half the things she says because her voice is so soft. But she was the only one who has a schedule clear enough that she can lead Saria wherever she needs to go basically whenever, so Noire it is. Fine. Saria can deal with having someone hold her arm and tell her where the stairs are.  
  
Noire mumbles something that Saria only notices because she's paying attention. Saria tilts her head. Noire clears her throat and speaks up.  
  
"H-have you gotten to meet anyone else?" she repeats.  
  
"I met the Exalt," Saria recalls. "And that knight that's always with her." The Exalt is the faded pale green of soft fabrics frayed and faded with age but still soft, and the knight with her is the official shade of dark blue that is crisp uniform edges full of starch.  
  
"No, any of us," Noire corrects herself. "It's kind of— th-there's a sub-group, sort of thing, with us. A-a whole lot of the kids here have dead parents, o-or siblings, a-and they're here because somehow they met someone who told them here was safe. My dad, um, h-he knew Lucina's, a-and my sister a-and Gerome, he's my cousin, kind of, w-we all came here once things, um… got bad. A-and there's a lot of others like us here, so… i-it's not much, but, well. It's better than nothing, right?"  
  
"You're telling me that dead parents are common here?" Saria repeats. "That it's a prerequisite for some kind of club?"  
  
"I-it's not a club," Noire mumbles. "B-but yes, it's common. Lucina, um, she's the leader, I guess, she says we should all band together and s-support each other, because people aren't going to stop dying anytime soon."  
  
_I don't want to be a part of your stupid orphans club,_ Saria wants to say. Peanut idly leans, tugging at Saria's hand, wondering when it is the walk will be over because she's had twice her portion of dinner and wants to be quiet for awhile and then go to sleep. She tugs at Saria's hand and says "Baba, up?" And Saria crouches and picks her up.  
  
"I couldn't have said it better myself," a new voice says— it's louder, more confident, and it's blue. "Anybody could die at any moment. All we can do is support one another while we're still alive."  
  
_Do you always sound like you're giving an overblown speech to a crowd of adoring followers?_ Saria thinks. "Right, naturally," she says. "So glad someone is thinking about these things."  
  
"What's wrong with that?" Blue says, mildly offended.  
  
"Let's not…" Noire tries to interrupt, but it goes unheard. She sighs and gives up.  
  
"I don't have a problem with whatever it is you're doing," Saria replies. "It's fine. We all have different ways of dealing with things, and if yours is forming an orphans-of-war club, then that's fine."  
  
"It's not an orphans-of-war club," Blue protests. "It's not any kind of club. Don't you think it's a good idea to know at least one other person who knows what you're going through?"  
  
Saria feels herself prickle. "What I'm going through is nobody's damned business," she says sharply. "Whatever. Preach your doctrine to me some other time."  
  
"Sorry, Lucina," she hears Noire murmur. "H-hey, Saria? Do you want to, um—"  
  
Saria breathes. "Yes, that'd be great," she decides. "Thank you, Noire. I suppose I'll be seeing you later, Lucina." She tries her hardest not to spit the name, because she knows it's not Lucina that's the reason she feels like she wants to curl into a ball and scream until her throat hurts. She also fails, so.  
  
But Noire takes her hand, gently, and leads her back to her room (that she knows was a storeroom once because it's still full of crates) and says to her, "U-um, if you need any help with a-anything, then I'm next door."  
  
"Thanks," Saria says, voice hollow. She moves her cane until it bumps into the cradle pushed against one wall, and then she crouches and checks that there's blankets in there. When that's satisfactory, she gently sets Peanut in it. Peanut rubs at her eyes and yawns. Noire leaves the room, and shuts the door behind her.  
  
It's a small room, but Saria wasn't expecting fancy accommodations. The front wall is stone and it's cold, and the other three are wood beams and plaster that also feel cold. There's a candle on the tiny table that's doing it's damndest to heat and light the room, but Saria's hands still feel cold and shaky and numb. She leaves it lit.  
  
"Hey, baba?" Peanut mumbles.  
  
"What is it?" Saria asks, trying not to sound as weary as she feels and failing because it's not like she's had practice with this sort of thing.  
  
"When're papa and Anya and your ama comin' back for us?" Peanut asks.  
  
"They're not," Saria says. "They're dead, Peanut."  
  
"Yeah, so, when're they comin' back?" Peanut repeats. "Is it tonight? 'Cause I can't sleep without a bedtime story an' goodnight kiss."  
  
"They're never coming back, Peanut," Saria says. She clenches her fists. "They died. It's just you and me now."  
  
The cradle creaks as Peanut sits up. "That's not true," she tries to say, sniffling. "It's not! Can't be! Papa an' Anya— y-your Ama said they had to take a nap 'cause they got hurt real bad! An' it's been longer than a nap is an' they still aren't here!"  
  
"That's because they're dead!" Saria says, for the third time. Why doesn't she get it? "They're gone, okay? And they're not coming back!"  
  
Peanut is quiet. "I d-didn't get to tell my papa bye," she whimpers. "H-how come he got died before I could? S'not fair."  
  
"Because life isn't fair," Saria replies. "It's just us now, so we have to remember them. That's what people do when the people they love die."  
  
"I won't forget," Peanut says, sniffling. "Never ever."  
  
"Never ever," Saria repeats, hollowly. "Good plan, Peanut."  
  
Peanut shuffles. Saria thinks she's quieted down to go to sleep, because she did eat two dinners and Ylissean "beef" "stew" is said to be very filling, so she lets herself let out a sigh and lean her head on the wood beam behind the low, narrow bunk that is most definitely not what she's used to. Even if she wasn't royalty, not technically, and even if her mother didn't hold any real power, military or political, what she did have was connections and that earned her some very nice accommodations— it was materialistic and shallow but what Saria wouldn't give now for a big, plush mattress and a thick woven quilt over soft sheets made from the finest Plegian linen that gets delivered in bulk to the castle from the weavers on the coast. They always smelled like sunshine and a little bit of honey, and Saria regretted taking them for granted, considering her life now appeared to be scratchy military-issue wool. She's never thought much about things like where she slept or what she ate, because whatever it was was always there.  
  
She shifts on the bed. The wooden slats squawk and they sound almost insulting, as if telling Saria she ought to lose some weight, and Saria almost glares at them in offense before realizing that it's a bed frame and it doesn't really care _that_ much, it's just not good at doing its job.  
  
"Baba?" Peanut speaks up. "You gonna go?"  
  
Saria isn't sure what to say. "I should probably go apologize to Lucina," she muses. "She didn't mean any harm. It wasn't fair of me to snap at her like that."  
  
"Okay," Peanut says. "Baba? Can you do the story an' goodnight kiss tonight?"  
  
She's not sure why but Saria feels something tug in her chest, something foreign that had a color that shifted— a bit orange, a bit pink. "Alright," Saria decides. She takes her cane and sits down next to the cradle. "This is one my mother told me once. Did you ever hear of the blue coyotes?"

* * *

  
  
After the story is over and Peanut is sleeping, snuggled up with her father's coat, Saria leaves the room and quietly shuts the door behind her. She sweeps her cane across the stone floors and steps forward once she learns the area is clear, and she thinks for a minute to knock next door and ask Noire to take her to Lucina, but she can feel the chill of nighttime prickling at her skin through the old shawl that the Exalt gave her, and somewhere, an owl hoots. It hoots again, and then the hooting stops with the sound of an arrow through its gullet. Saria feels queasy. Add that to the list of things she's taken for granted— exactly where meat comes from.  
  
Has it been that long? Peanut did ask for another story after the one about the blue coyotes, so she'd told another one of her mother's about the first bird that ever flew, and then another one from a storybook Saria read about a tiger and a peacock that became friends. Saria knows lots of stories and loves to tell them, but she's bound to run out. Saria hopes, partially, that Peanut outgrows bedtime stories before that happens.  
  
The trees outside the Garrison walls rustle as Saria, slowly, makes her way down the empty corridor. She pauses and picks up her cane when it gets stuck between cobblestones, and for once, desperately wishes she'd taken the offer of help where it came because she doesn't have any idea which hallways lead where and which rooms she can enter. There's a courtyard on her right because she can feel the breeze blowing and rustling the grass and it's blue because it's chilly, just a bit, and frosty white where it makes her nose and cheeks cold. There's only been frost in Plegia a handful of times because there isn't enough moisture in the air to make it possible that often, but Saria knows what frost is and it's white. She pinches her shawl tighter under her chin and sweeps for the steps down to the courtyard.  
  
She misses. The ground below her cane gives way and catches her by surprise, and she falls down the two pathetic little steps to the courtyard. Her knees hit the stone and she scrapes her hands, but she can hear where her cane went and she picks it up again. She shifts, wincing when her knees sting and she feels red, hurting, sticky and hot when she touches it.  
  
"Are you alright?" somebody asks— it's Lucina, from earlier. Saria's guard goes up.  
  
"I'm fine," she says, standing and dusting her skirt off. "Actually, I was looking for you. Lucina, right?"  
  
"That's me," she says. She's blue, Saria realizes. Not quite the faded navy of the knight that brought her here but lighter, like the way the air feels just after the sun has set and when people are starting to say _"look, the stars are coming out!"_ She is bright juicy berries bursting in Saria's mouth and the way rain feels on the other side of a windowpane, and the enjoyment in people's voices when they say _"wow, a shooting star!"_  
  
It's a nice color. Saria wonders why she didn't pick up on it earlier. "I wanted to say I'm sorry," she says. "I shouldn't have snapped at you earlier. You were just trying to help."  
  
Lucina seems… surprised, almost. "Oh," she says, and it has the round, short sound of one who was not exactly expecting this. "Oh. Well… apology accepted. Thank you, I… suppose. Um… Do you want me to take you to the infirmary? My aunt Maribelle is probably still there and she'll be gentle."  
  
Saria wants to say _no, I'll find my way on my own,_ and though she says it's because she's pretty sure she knows where the infirmary is it's also because Lucina does not seem to care about Saria's honest apology and attempt to make amends. _Whatever_. But then she realizes she really isn't sure where the infirmary is and she doesn't know if it's acceptable to go in for a pair of scraped knees this late in the day. She's not actually sure what time it is.  
  
"Fine," Saria caves. "Thanks. I'm pretty sure I know the way, but I could be wrong."  
  
"You'll get the hang of it," Lucina says, helping her up. Her touch feels blue and her hands, bare even in the chilly early-autumn night, are layered in blisters. Saria wonders what she's doing to harm her hands so. The blisters are hot to Saria's touch but her fingertips are chapped and cold. She doesn't touch Lucina's hands too hard.  
  
"The layout of the Garrison isn't that difficult," Lucina admits. "It's mostly… squares. Being a working military fort, and all. My father said that the Ylissean army used this place for training exercises when my aunt Emmeryn was Exalt and there was no real military to speak of."  
  
"Why wasn't there a military?" Saria asks. "I mean, no matter how pacifistic a time, there has to be some line of defense at all times, or else the country will collapse."  
  
"It wasn't that there was no military, it's that most of the military was all dead or too damaged to continue fighting," Lucina explains, leading her across the courtyard and up the next two steps. "So there was some down time between that and training up new soldiers."  
  
Saria tastes something sour in her throat and regrets asking. "Ah."  
  
"Yeah," Lucina finishes. "But, yeah, it's a fort, so it's pretty easy to get the layout once you know where everything is. The infirmary is right over there, actually." Saria assumes she points.  
  
"Over where?" Saria asks.  
  
"Where I'm pointing," Lucina clarifes, helpfully. "Do you see it? It says so on the door."  
  
"No, _actually_ , I can't," Saria replies, not without snark, even though by this point she's used to people assuming she can see but that doesn't make it any less awkward and annoying.  
  
"Oh," Lucina says, with a tone that makes it sound like she honestly hadn't noticed. She's either being deliberately malicious or she's just that dense, and the second one is more likely. Lucina obviously isn't dumb, but it's quite a feat to miss Saria's blindness when she's carrying a cane and tripped down a two-step stairway because she didn't see it.  
  
Lucina, quite awkwardly, clears her throat. What does one even _say_ to that? "Sorry to hear that," she says— and immediately regrets it. Not that.  
  
Saria raises an eyebrow. This conversation has not gotten any less awkward." _Anyway_ ," Saria says. "I'm sure I'll figure out where everything is eventually. I didn't want to disturb Noire, is all, and I'm pretty sure I know where it is. It's one of the rooms that borders the courtyard, isn't it?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah it is," Lucina confirms, grateful for the change of subject.  
  
"And it's sharp," Saria muses. "From the antiseptics and such, it smells sharp. You can smell it halfway down the hall."  
  
"Sharp?" Lucina questions. "I mean… I guess? I'd never thought of it that way."  
  
"That's just the way I see it," Saria shrugs. "Figuratively."  
  
Lucina clears her throat. "Right," she said. "Sorry."  
  
"It's not a big deal," Saria says.  
  
They walk in awkward silence. Saria said her bit and would really rather get her knees patched up so she can go back to her bunk in peace, but either the infirmary is further than she thought or Lucina walks very, very slowly because it's felt like ages since they left the courtyard.  
  
"You should get something for your hands," Saria says. Lucina shifts, likely the sound of her hands going behind her back. "Those blisters have to hurt."  
  
"Everything turns into a callus eventually," Lucina protests. "They don't hurt much."  
  
"When they burst, they'll get infected if you just do nothing," Saria continues. "That's how blisters work."  
  
"It's fine," Lucina tries to say.  
  
"It's not," Saria replies. "What did you do to your hands, anyway?"  
  
Lucina shrugs. She doesn't want to answer the question. Saria stops and folds her arms, raising an eyebrow. At least, she hopes she's raising an eyebrow— it's not like she can check to see which muscles in her face actually look like they're moving when she moves them. Sometimes it feels they are but it doesn't look like it.  
  
"Just practicing," Lucina says and it's not totally untrue. "I have to keep my sword skills sharp if I'm going to stay on the battlefield, and if I'm going to protect the people of the Garrison."  
  
It's a noble goal, Saria admits. "You're not going to do anybody any good if your hands can't grip your sword," she replies.  
  
Lucina grumbles. "Let's just get to the infirmary," she says. "It's close." They keep walking.  
  
Saria smells the antiseptic when they get close. It pierces her nostrils with its cold, clinical sharpness like the precision needles and sharp scissors they use, and it's all white, but a different white than the white of loneliness and fear. This white is bare but it's supposed to be that way— it's treated cloth on the floor below operating tables to collect fluid, and linens washed in water hot enough to blister Saria's soft hands, and it's not quite the tools themselves because the tools themselves are a pristine silver like mirrors but it's their thinness, their precision that's white. This white is cleanliness and precision and the sense of there's a job to be done so we'd better do it right.  
  
The healer on duty isn't Lucina's aunt Maribelle but her son Brady, though he says his mother will be back soon if they really need to see her. But he cleans out and patches up Saria's scraped knees and tells her to remove the bandages in the morning to let them heal naturally. Brady is a soft yellow like the softness of straw-filled pillows and the way they scrunch softly when manipulated, and like cornhusks and the intricate weavings of wicker baskets. Saria's seen candles his color but only when they're not candles but are strings on a rack as the hot candle-wax is heating up, before dyes and scents have been added to it.  
  
He asks about Lucina's hands. "How're the blisters coming, yer Grace?" he asks, not using a formal tone one would use in the presence of royalty At All. Lucina shifts again.  
  
She dodges the question. "My _training_ is going fine, Brady," she replies. "And I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine."  
  
"It's gonna hurt," he warns. "You been wearing your gloves?"  
  
Lucina doesn't answer. Brady sighs.  
  
"Gave 'em to someone else?" he guesses. Lucina nods. Brady sighs, again.  
  
"That's gonna get you one of these days," he says, standing up and getting a needle, a little bowl, more antiseptic, and more bandages. "Sit down. I'm gonna drain them suckers."  
  
And Lucina may be older and the princess of Ylisse but Brady's the doctor here, so she sits down next to Saria on the creaking cot in the infirmary, and the mattress shifts. Brady drains the blisters and bandages Lucina's hands and fingers, and for the rest of the time in the infirmary they sit in silence.  
  
Lucina walks Saria back to her bunk. Her hands seem to hurt less but she still moves them gingerly, and Saria makes sure not to prod them too much. She's still blue even through the bandages.  
  
"Do you do this sort of thing a lot?" Saria has to ask, because curiousity has been gnawing at her since that evening.  
  
"What sort of thing?" Lucina asks. "The practicing without gloves?"  
  
"A lot of things, actually," Saria clarifies. "The… reaching out to people. The giving. The whole 'silent, thankless protector' thing."  
  
Lucina's quiet. Instead of really answering, she says, "I'm next in line to be the Exalt of Ylisse. People look to me for leadership and safety— or, well, they will one day. Until the time comes the burden falls on my shoulders alone, I have to prepare myself, and I can't do that without being as strong as I can be."  
  
Saria wants to roll her eyes. "Say again?" she asks. "The truth, this time."  
  
"It _is_ the truth," Lucina insists. "I have to get stronger in order to protect the people that are going to be relying on me."  
  
"How will you know when that day comes?" Saria asks. "Assuming there's no limit to how strong you can get, how will you know how strong you need to be?"  
  
Lucina doesn't know how to answer that.  
  
"And assuming there's no limit to how strong anybody can be, what happens if no matter how strong you get, there's something stronger that you can't face on your own?" Saria continues.  
  
"I'll have to face it anyway," Lucina replies. "I don't have the luxury of sitting back and letting other people work for me."  
  
Saria shakes her head. "You're going to get yourself killed," she says.  
  
Fabric shifts when Lucina shrugs. Something cold settles in the pit of Saria's stomach when the implications of that shrug set in a second later.  
  
"I should get back to training," she says. "We don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. More Risen may attack and I have to be ready."  
  
Saria furrows her eyebrows. "You mean you're—" she begins. "You're actually _out_ there? Fighting, with the rest of the soldiers?"  
  
"Where else would I be?" Lucina shrugs. "I wouldn't expect _you_ to understand. You don't look like you've seen a real battle a day in your life."  
  
"I haven't seen _anything_ a day in my life," Saria replies.  
  
"So you never will know," Lucina continues. "I suppose that's good. You've never hunted, either?"  
  
"I've never had to," Saria says, and wonders what sort of shambling society this is that princesses need to hunt for their dinners.  
  
"So you've never killed," Lucina says. "You don't know what it's like."  
  
Saria isn't sure how to answer.  
  
"It's not hard," Lucina shrugs. "After awhile, sticking a sword in a Risen feels just like dealing the final blow on a boar. They're just animals shaped like people and the only thing different is that they don't feed anybody."  
  
Saria feels ill thinking about it. "Would something living feel the same?"  
  
Lucina takes a moment to wonder about that. "Probably not," she admits. "But I've never killed anything living."  
  
For what it's worth, Saria hopes she doesn't have to.  
  
"I'll see you tomorrow," she says. "Thanks for taking me to the infirmary."  
  
Lucina probably nods. Saria can't tell. "Be careful on the stairs," she says. "Alright?"  
  
Saria nods. She excuses herself into her room and Lucina walks away, and Saria sits back donw on the bed with a quiet sigh— quiet, so she doesn't wake Peanut.  
  
_I don't want to have to kill anything,_ Saria prays, silently. _Let this end soon. Let the killing stop._  
  
She isn't sure if whatever gods still exist hear her or not, but she wants to believe they do.


	16. Letters, Sent and Unsent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I miss you. Come home soon. I've been praying for your safety. Is it working?_
> 
> He calls her Daisy and one day everyone else will, too.

_Daisy,_  
  
_You may not want to hear from me. That's okay. You and OG and CK probably think I'm dead. That's okay, too. But I'm not dead, and it turns out I'm going to be away longer than I initially thought. I thought I'd be back in a few months, but it turns out a few months is more like forever._  
  
_I wanted to tell you where I was going. But mama and I left so quickly I didn't have a chance to say goodbye. I found a cool rock for you on the way over to Plegia and my cousin almost shot it out of her slingshot, but I stopped her in time. I keep it special in my shirt pocket so I don't lose it, so next time I see you, I'll give it to you. And I will see you again, and the whole Justice Cabal can hang out together— that is, if you and the others haven't added someone new to the team. That's okay, though._  
  
_Daisy, I'm sorry for hurting you. I'm still not sure why, but I think it has to do with the thing in my eye— the Mark of Grima, my grandfather calls it, or he used to, until mama killed him while she was posessed, I think is what uncle Rohan told me. That's okay, grandfather was kind of an asshole and I saw him hit mama a few times and from what I saw he didn't really care about her at all, so even though it's bad to say it, I'm kind of glad he's dead and I don't think I'll miss him. Are all grandfathers such assholes?_  
  
_But the Mark— it's supposed to be Capitalized because it's Important, I'm told— isn't just a symbol in my eye. It gives me powers over dark magic and there's this voice in my head telling me things like that I'm the son of a god and I was meant to be worshipped and feared, and he can make it so if I give him power and control. But if mama has the same symbol on her hand and it's what she's been fighting since she was my age, then I don't think I want to do that. But it keeps saying I'll have to surrender eventually and I'm scared that it's right. I don't want to become a monster._  
  
_I hope that, when I see you again, it's because I've figured out teleportation and not because Eris-- it's not Grima, exactly, that my mom has-- decided to march on the Garrison. There's a dance I want to show you that I learned while I was learning about Plegian language and culture and things. Dancing is a lot of fun when your teacher is cool and makes jokes about history while teaching you the steps— not like my old dance teacher from Ylisse, who was old and creaky. Being a prince is cool and all, but I still don't know why you have to learn to dance._  
  
_And I will see you again. I promise— I'd spit shake on it, but this is a letter and I don't want to ruin the letter by spitting on the paper. I'll see you again and I'll teach you the dance, and I'll give you the rock. I'll keep it safe until then._  
  
_I don't know if the fact that I'm alive is supposed to be secret. But if Lucina believes you, can you tell her that I'm sorry for leaving, and that I love her, and I miss her, and when I come back I'll say hi to her, too, if I can? And I have a rock for her as well and it looks like it has a the silhouette of a frog carved into it. I don't know how that happened. I hope it was a miracle. Magic is weird._  
  
_I miss you, Daisy. But when I come see you again, I'll give you the rock and teach you the dance because I think you'll like doing it because you like dancing, right?_  
  
_Your brother, always,_  
_Marcus_

[The letter is slightly dirty. Leaves have gotten into the envelope and dried during transit, and there's a bit of dirt that falls out when unfolded. The empty half-page after Marcus's name has an amateur drawing of two children, both smiling, one with pointed ears and braids and the other with no hair and a long purple coat. They're holding hands. The bald one is holding a mass of flowers.]

* * *

  
  
_Marcus,_  
  
_Why did you have to leave?_  
  
~~_I miss yo_ ~~  
  
~~_I love y_ ~~  
  
~~_I wish you were still here so we could all play together_ ~~  
  
~~_You could never be a monster, never ever_ ~~  
  
~~_Why did you ever think you w_ ~~  
  
~~_Did you know how much OG and CK and I_ ~~  
  
~~_We miss you_ ~~  
  
~~_We miss you_ ~~  
  
~~_I miss you_ ~~  
  
~~_I wish w_ ~~  
  
~~_Whatever is telling you you're a monster, it's wrong and_ ~~  
  
~~_I mis_ ~~  
  
~~_We loved you_ ~~  
  
~~_I wish we could see each other agai_ ~~  
  
~~_You didn't hurt me or scare m_ ~~  
  
~~_I don't know why it happened_ ~~  
  
~~_I can't hear the gods anymore and I'm_ ~~  
  
~~_I prayed for you but I don't know if anyone answered. I hope something di_ ~~  
  
~~_I miss y_ ~~  
  
~~_I lo_ ~~  
  
~~_Is it weird to say I_ ~~  
  
_I wish you were here._  
  
~~_I wish y_ ~~  
  
~~_I wis_ ~~  
  
~~_I wish you coul_ ~~  
  
~~_I_ ~~  
  
~~_We miss y_ ~~  
  
~~_We love you, M_ ~~  
  
~~_I wish I knew what to say to you but you've been gone for what feels like forever a_ ~~  
  
~~_I feel sick when I think abou_ ~~  
  
~~_Are you alright? Are you eating enough? Are you getting enough slee_ ~~  
  
~~_Dancing with you sounds n_ ~~  
  
_I hate letters._

* * *

  
  
_Marcus,_  
  
_I miss you. Come home soon. I've been praying for your safety. Is it working?_  
  
_I'd like to dance with you when you come home._  
  
_You'll be welcomed._  
  
_~~Nah~~ Daisy  
_


	17. Act I-  The Children of the Garrison: XVII- The Hayloft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Perhaps so," she admits. "But you're not her. You're you. You think with your heart—" she presses her hand over Lissa's heart— "And not your head. Thinking with her head is what your sister needed to do, but thinking with your heart is what's needed now. The people need hope now, not numbers and logic, and hope is what you provide."_
> 
> _Lissa looks to Maribelle's hand, fingertips on Lissa's heart. Lissa reaches up and touches her hand, and it curls into hers as if instinctively. Their fingers intertwine._
> 
> The world is ending, but Lissa will not bow.

It's the end of September. It's the evening, just after dinner, and Exalt Lissa has just kicked over a milk can in the barn. There is no milk in it, luckily, so all she did was frighten Quartermaster Morris and make their last, hardiest milk cows look up from chewing their hay and then return to it. Sunlight pours through the opened barn doors and turns the hay gold. Lissa remembers that when she was fourteen she had never seen a barn in person, so she climbed up all the ladders to the rafters and into the hayloft. And then she'd gotten frightened because she was up so high and it seemed so precarious that she couldn't get down, so she'd had to wait until Maribelle found her and promised her the thing would hold. She'd come down with her hair full of hay and her skirts mussed and Maribelle, between fussing over her and how frightened she must've been, told her that it wasn't ladylike to go gallavanting about in the hay. And Lissa had said _but it was wonderful up there, I want you to come with me next time_ — and beccause Maribelle was also fourteen and was physically unable to say no to Lissa, she'd said _fine, if it'll make you happy._ But Lissa thought that Maribelle had secretly wanted to climb up in the hayloft with a friend so they could talk about trivial things and giggle like village girls, and was glad she'd asked. (They had done just that the next evening and fallen asleep with their fingers intertwined and their heads pressed together, and Lissa did not remember a time then when she felt more at peace.)  
  
But peace is far away now, and the milk can rolls on the wood floor of the barn. Quartermaster Morris' shoulders shrink up and he holds up his writing board in front of him as if it's a largely ineffective shield. Lissa glares at him, strands of hair the same color as the hay falling from the messy pinned-back knot on the back of her head. "Tell that to me again."  
  
"We're— we're out of food, your Grace," Morris says, voice warbling. "The, ah, s-stores allotted to cooking meals are greatly depleted, a-and it seems what the scouts can bring b-back isn't— w-well— It isn't good, your Grace, a-and I certainly understand your current state of concern—"  
  
" _State_ of _concern?"_ Lissa demands. "A 'state of concern' is being out of green ink. A 'state of concern' is hearing that Lucina's broken another support beam wrestling with Kjelle. Being out of food and calling my reaction to such a ' _state of concern'_ is akin to telling a child with two broken legs to get up and walk it off."  
  
"Y-your Grace," Morris tries to continue. "F-forgive me, I misspoke. A-and the scouts are out gathering foodstuffs tonight and, come Wednesday, w-we'll have enough rations if we dip into the pickled and canned stuff to tide us until the next bulk shipment from Ferox arrives."  
  
"So nobody's going to eat on Tuesday?" Lissa says. "Ser Morris, do you mean to say that eating has become a 'maybe' as far as events go? Do you mean to say that we have to go out there and tell the people, 'we're sorry, but you don't get to eat today'?"  
  
"W-we can fix this," Morris promises. "B-but it'd involve going over-budget with our stores, and extended resignation to this plan will deplete our stores for real, and put us in great danger of starvation when the winter comes."  
  
"Alright, so, if we _don't_ do that," Lissa reasons. "Then we have to go out to that room full of soldiers and scouts and mages who fight and die without a gods-damned reason aside from loyalty at this point, and not to mention the herd of orphans we've amassed, and tell them we've failed at our first job of keeping everybody fed, but hey, we still have food in storage that we're going to keep until the winter so we _probably_ won't starve then. And do you know whose job that is, Morris? Do you?"  
  
"Y-yours, your Grace," he swallows.  
  
Lissa nods, pointedly. "Unless _you_ want to be the one to look those kids in the eye and tell them we can't feed them anymore, _I'll_ be the one to do it. Unless, of course, you have another plan."  
  
Morris sweats. "W-we can cut into our stores," he says. "I-if we tighten up the meals based on required calories, and perhaps improvise— it won't taste good, and the cooks won't like it, b-but…"  
  
Lissa takes a breath. She shouldn't take it out on Morris. "Whatever it takes," she says. "We promised to keep the people safe and fed, and as long as there are people left to patch the holes in the roof and lift a blade against the Risen and venture out to gather and hunt for us, we're going to keep that promise."  
  
Morris nods. "Understood, your Grace."  
  
"Go," she says, gesturing with her head. Morris bows and leaves, and when his back is retreating, Lissa sits down on the low bench in the barn with a sigh— she's too young to feel so old. For a fleeting moment, she considers climbing up into the hayloft like she did those years ago, but she doesn't. She's thirty-two and that's not old, but it's not young enough to climb the ladders and pretend to be carefree. So instead she uncorks a bottle of brandy and takes a deep swig.  
  
"Fine fuckin' time to be ruling," she sighs. But she has to keep smiling, keep hope alive— it's tiring, so she allows herself this time to be tired and bitter. Lissa wonders if she'll ever forgive her siblings for dying on her and leaving it all on her shoulders. She wonders if she'll ever forgive herself.  
  
Half the bottle is gone by the time Maribelle walks in. Lissa hasn't moved. She doesn't usually drink that much this early in the afternoon but sometimes things just feel to unbearable to get through, and even though Lissa knows it doesn't become an Exalt to be a drunkard, she feels like that's her destiny anyway. And if she knows she's already damned, why not go all the way?  
  
"You're at it again," Maribelle chides, but it's not a real admonishment. "You'll drink yourself into an early grave at this rate."  
  
"I'll be careful," Lissa promises. It's empty and Maribelle knows it. "It's been a rough day, is all."  
  
Maribelle understands, even if she doesn't like it. She sits down next to Lissa on the low bench in the barn and by this point she's not even going to pretend that hanging out in a barn is beneath their stations because station doesn't even matter anymore— the world is ending, so who cares about titles and land claims and nobility?  
  
Wordlessly, Lissa offers her the bottle. Maribelle prefers wine, personally, but she's not going to turn down a stiff drink. She takes a sip from the bottle (pinky up— old habits die hard), dabs her mouth with her handkerchief, and hands the brandy back to Lissa.  
  
"Fine fuckin' time to be ruling," Lissa sighs, again, because she knows Maribelle will nod and perhaps scold her for language, not necessarily in that order.  
  
"Language," Maribelle says. "But yes. It is a fine fuckin' time to be ruling." And when Maribelle swears, that's how Lissa knows she's exhausted— being a proper lady is work and Maribelle throws herself into it day after day even though it doesn't even matter anymore, but it's drilled into her too far for her to let it go. She'll still say _pardon me_ and _please_ and _thank you_ and _if you don't mind,_ and she'll still comb her hair even if it's short now and she'll still drink her tea in the evenings with her pinky finger up. In the first six months she wore makeup but even she had to stop because there just wasn't enough time. But there is still fire in her eyes even if there are circles beneath them, and Lissa is so very glad that fire has not gone out.  
  
Lissa takes a breath. "Even if the world weren't ending," she begins. "I'm pretty sure all of this would be enough to drive me crazy. Robin killing Chrom, faith dying, food shortage, weird weather, Risen— even if this were normal stuff that we'd get through as a country, I don't think I'd be able to handle it. I saw what being Exalt did to Emm, and she was just a kid when it happened." She breathes again. "I think I understand her better now."  
  
Maribelle's eyes widen. "You don't mean—"  
  
"I'm not gonna make the same choices she did," Lissa says, hurriedly. "I mean… I get now what she was thinking. Why she didn't want Chrom or me doing this. Chrom always was better on a battlefield than in a courtroom, and I've never been good enough to lead anything. I get it now, that she'd always kind of wanted to die."  
  
"I mean, _shit_ ," Lissa continues. "Who wouldn't, with that much pressure? That many people saying you can't mess up, you're not allowed to make mistakes, you have to be perfect and pure and a symbol for peace and leadership all the time— and telling all of that to a kid Brady's age, or, heck, _Owain's_ age? It's a miracle she didn't get around to offing herself even before the world ended. Even with Frederick and Phila, I don't think I could've lasted that long."  
  
"Lissa, don't," Maribelle stops her there. She puts a hand over Lissa's, the one holding the bottle of brandy. Lissa sets the bottle down and holds Maribelle's hand. "You're not your sister,  and that isn't your situation."  
  
"But just think about it," Lissa presses. "If it were, I don't think I could do it."  
  
Maribelle shakes her head. It scares her to think about Lissa in a situation like her sister, and even if all factors were the same, the fact remains that they're different people. If Emmeryn had had the problem of feeding a mass of hungry people with limited supplies, her first thought would be to quantify exactly how much there was and how much people could eat. Lissa's was of having to tell people _sorry, but you don't get to eat_ and how to prevent that from happening, no matter the cost. Maribelle wasn't there during the early years of Emmeryn's rule but she knew of it and she'd witnessed the aftermath, even if she was still very young. People were glad the war was over and their people were home and there was food and coin flowing again, but the scars were still there. _Never again,_ people would say, youngsters Emmeryn's age who enlisted into Ylisse's military in droves so farmers wouldn't have to be conscripted and sent off to die. _Never again_ will anyone fight who doesn't want to. _Never again_ will a country be pushed so close towards collapse for the sake of a silly, never-ending war. _Never again_ will so many suffer on so large a scale that it can only be measured in hundred-thousands. _Never again_. Lissa was too soft, too kind, too open to be the ruler during the times that led to the era of never-again. She trusted too easily and empathized too quickly to be able to do what needed to be done in a time like that. The pain of it all, the hurting, the hunger, the suffering would've broken her. She wouldn't have been able to do it like Emmeryn did, not at that young an age. Maribelle can't bear to think about that.  
  
"Perhaps so," she admits. "But you're not her. You're you. You think with your heart—" she presses her hand over Lissa's heart— "And not your head. Thinking with her head is what your sister needed to do, but thinking with your heart is what's needed now. The people need hope now, not numbers and logic, and hope is what you provide." Maribelle cannot speak for what Emmeryn is doing now-- last she heard, she'd retired to the Feroxi countryside with her wife for a much-needed rest. Now, though, who can say?  
  
Lissa looks to Maribelle's hand, fingertips on Lissa's heart. Lissa reaches up and touches her hand, and it curls into hers as if instinctively. Their fingers intertwine. Lissa reaches up and runs a hand through Maribelle's short hair. She loved it when it was long but practicality demands it short, and though Lissa can get away with pinning her curls behind her head, Maribelle just took a razor to it. For months she had a halo of blonde fuzz an inch off her scalp, until it grew back out. Lissa is glad it did.  
  
Maribelle stands and brushes an imaginary layer of dust off her skirt. "Up," she commands, folding her arms.  
  
Lissa furrows her eyebrows. "What?"  
  
"You heard me," Maribelle says primly, taking the bottle out of Lissa's hands, corking it, and setting it aside. "Up. I'm not letting you drink yourself into a stupor. Do you see this ladder? We're going to climb it and sit up there."  
  
"You _hate_ climbing into the loft," Lissa replies. "You keep saying the hay is itchy and it gets everywhere, and it's _unbecoming_ of a lady to be climbing ladders."  
  
"I _do_ hate it, and it _is_ itchy, and it _is_ unbecoming," Maribelle admits. "But that doesn't matter. We _are_ climbing up there and you _are_ going to like it."  
  
Lissa sighs, and gets to her feet. "This isn't made for adults," she warns. "If I break the ladder then you're going to have to find another way to get us down."  
  
"That won't happen," Maribelle retorts as Lissa climbs, careful of the splintery wood of the ladder.  
  
Lissa looks at her skeptically. Maribelle rolls her eyes despite that she knows it's unladylike and, at this point, quite juvenile. Lissa keeps climbing and the ladder doesn't break, but she knows it's not meant for somebody her size, let alone two somebodies— even if Maribelle is much smaller.  
  
It's a nice evening. Lissa lets the hay scrunch beneath her weight, even though the boards of the loft creak. She dangles her legs off the side and leans on her elbows, looking at the patched barn roof and the ropes dangling from the rafters. In the summer, they had three broken bones and one concussion because Lucina and her friends were too reckless swinging on those ropes, trying to be daring like book adventurers, but the ropes are old and children of fourteen often swing with more force than is perhaps necessary. But they laughed about it and Lissa wanted to take that moment and preserve it, freeze it like a bug in a drop of tree sap and hold it close to her heart. She wanted to wear it around her neck like a locket and hear the childish laughter echo when she held her ear to it, and she wanted the memory itself to live even only as a far-away speck of joy in a world of sorrow. Lucina has changed even between then and now. Lissa doesn't think she'll be playing in the hayloft next summer. Perhaps she'll think herself too old; Lissa would, too, if she were fourteen and had seen all the death that Lucina has.  
  
Maribelle sits next to her. Her short hair tickles Lissa's chin. Lissa kisses her head.  
  
"They still haven't fully fixed that hole in the roof," Maribelle notes, squinting through the sunbeam that's fallen through the hole and onto her face. It lights her hair up in white and sugar-spun gold. _An angel,_ Lissa thinks, and her heart skips a beat. Lissa is glad they haven't fixed that hole.  
  
"We'll put canvas over it before it rains," Lissa promises. "I'm sure there's some to spare. Or we can always oil an old sheet."  
  
Maribelle shakes her head. "Oh, it doesn't matter that much," she dismisses. "Don't waste resources on my complaints, darling. We'd be out _everything_ if you did."  
  
"You don't complain nearly that much," Lissa points out. "If it's bothering you, I'll do what I can to fix it. That's my job."  
  
Maribelle scoffs. "And you're wonderful at it, love, but it's my job to make sure you don't go overboard with the generosity."  
  
Another Lissa would laugh and admit that she could go a bit overboard sometimes, but this one just takes in a breath through her nose. The hay smells sweet up here, and it's just warm enough to make her roll her shoulders slowly, work the warmth through her stiff muscles that loosen and warm like they've forgotten what it's like to move.  
  
"People _need_ generosity," she says instead. "They need proof that people can still be good and kind even when everything they know is falling apart. People are good, at their core, but it's hard to remember when you look out the window and all you see is death and war and killing. We _could_ be selfish and survive on our own, kin looking out for kin and all, but all it would mean is that we'd be royals with no country to run. It's the Exalt's job to take that good that's in everybody and protect it, and spread it when it's needed. Emm told me that when I was little."  
  
It's a good way to phrase it. Maribelle brushes a loose curl from Lissa's battle-scarred face and tucks it behind her ear. There had been a time when she wore it down, loose like a waterfall of curls down her back, because she'd decided that the twin-tails made her look too childish. But you can't have your hair down when dealing with the wounded, so her position demanded she put it up. The knot worked, even if Maribelle missed being able to play with Lissa's curls with her fingers, not because they were tangled (even if they did tangle easily) but because it was fascinating the way they curled around her fingers. Maribelle has always thought her own was too straight, and it was perhaps better for her that she cut it all off.  
  
"You didn't deserve this," Maribelle murmurs.  
  
"Hm?" Lissa looks at her. She hadn't quite heard— Maribelle, momentarily, debates whether it's worth repeating and explaining.  
  
"You didn't deserve this," Maribelle repeats. "Being thrown into leading a country actively rolling over and dying. Everyone knows we won't survive this, but here you are, when lesser men and women would break under the weight of it all. You're smiling, telling people that hope is alive and we will not be cowed that easily, and it's working. And gods, I only wish—" her voice breaks. Lissa pulls her into a hug. She doesn't need to finish.  
  
But the truth is that nobody deserved this, really— if someone deserves to be the leader of a people whose world is taking its last heaving, shuddering breaths but refusing to just die, like a horse with two broken legs that needs to be taken out back and shot so it won't suffer any longer but the farmer is chickening out, then what horrible crime did this criminal commit? Who deserves this, and what about all the innocent people that get taken along for the angry, painful, shaky ride? Eventually they'll run out of food or disease will get them and Lissa thinks the ones with foresight have already gone because they knew nobody will survive this. It's a horrible thought but if she weren't the Exalt and if she didn't have a herd of kids to guide she'd consider it herself.  
  
"It's a good thing I have you with me, then, isn't it?" Lissa says, cracking a smile. She doesn't always feel like smiling when she needs to but sometimes she smiles when she doesn't, and this is one of those times. Because what else can you do, sometimes, but smile and live through life when it's still yours?  
  
And for the moment, it's enough— for the moment Lissa is glad that she's alive and she's glad she's made it this far, because she still feels love alive beating in her chest and she still feels life mixed with brandy in her veins, and it's worth getting up again even if all she wants to do is succumb to despair and lethargy and let the wasting disease take her. It's enough for her to think that life is still living. It's enough and that's what matters.


	18. Again, for the First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Don't," Saria cuts her off. She sounds too bitter for somebody Lucina's age, but Lucina supposes experience will do that. "Stop trying."_
> 
> _"Why should I?" Lucina demands._
> 
> _"Because I should be dead!" Saria finally snaps. Her cane breaks in her hands and falls onto the ground in two pieces. The SNAP echoes through the forest and in Lucina's ears._
> 
> It's astounding what a heart-to-heart and a subsequent bear attack will do for a relationship.

October begins with little to-do. Meals get denser and sparser but nobody starves to death, and platoons of soldiers start to patch up the holes in the stone walls with tar and the scouts start stockpiling firewood. The fires in the hearths get warmer and people start wearing shoes again because it's gotten cold enough to warrant using them, and Lucina gets a new pair of boots that fit her right, instead of the last ones that were too tight and rubbed blisters onto her feet. Brumation starts and Lucina can tell because Nah and Marti start retreating to their bunk earlier and sleeping later. Gerome's wyvern, unlike Nah and Marti, just curls up in a warm corner of the stables and sleeps through it all, and Gerome drapes blankets over her and presses tiny kisses to her scaly dragon head when he thinks nobody is looking. Lucina has seen him and thinks it's cute, but she won't say anything.  
  
She's out hunting more. She's better now— she's big enough and strong enough to drag the boars behind her and she can shoot vultures out of the sky. They tend not to eat vultures because their meat isn't that great, but meat is meat and once it's in the stew pot it'll all end up the same color anyway.  
  
Lucina hasn't spoken to the new girl since that night in the courtyard— _fine, whatever_ , Lucina thinks, because they do run in different social circles and Lucina has convinced herself she wants nothing to do with Saria anyway. Besides, would Saria want to go bear-hunting? All sources point to _no_.  
  
So Lucina shoves thoughts of Saria out of her mind and recounts the arrows in her quiver. There are ten— three barbed, three sharpened, and four regular, as it should be. Lucina has her sights on bigger-than-boar, this time. She's a good enough hunter, she thinks, that she could go after something bigger. Something that could feed all of the Garrison! She pictures herself kicking open the Garrison gates, smeared with creature blood (enough to look dashing and heroic but not enough to stink), bow over her shoulder and hauling a creature four times her size, with massive claws and teeth and limbs thick as tree trunks. _I've brought dinner,_ she'd call, and the Garrison would cheer and say she was magnificent and heroic and that she'd saved them from starvation. And she'd chuckle humbly but thank them and accept the praise nonetheless, and maybe a charming and attractive apprentice or squire girl her age would ask her—  
  
"Do you mind if I come with you?"  
  
Still lost in the fantasy, Lucina says, "I'd be a fool to refuse an offer from such a charming young lady— wait, what?"  
  
Oh, gods, it's Saria. Lucina blushes, not that Saria can tell. Saria, bemused but otherwise unperturbed, raises an eyebrow and fiddles with the handle on her cane. She has that strange lightning sword on her hip and for once there's no small child on the other, only a battered satchel marked with the silver cross and dual wing emblem of Ylisse that distinguishes their uniforms from the ones the apprentices or soldiers or scouts wear.  
  
"Right, _anyway_ ," Saria says, in that way that makes Lucina sure Saria does not actually like her, "Can I come with you? We're low on this herb that her Grace really needs— well, _I_ need it, I suppose, she did ask me to ask one of you hunters, so."  
  
"Oh," Lucina nods. "Oh, well. I suppose? Are we taking Noire, too?"  
  
"No, she's sick." Saria shrugs. "That girl needs to eat something with flavor, that'll perk her right up. It's fairly distinctive— four leaves in a bunch, with these scalloped tips. Wyvern's Ears."  
  
Lucina has seen the Wyvern's Ears plant before. "Oh, I know what plant you're talking about. Are you sure you want to go now? I could ask sir Frederick, and I'm sure he'd take you—"  
  
"It should be now," Saria cuts her off. "I won't be in the way, I promise."  
  
Lucina purses her lips and sighs. If it were Severa asking to go, or Noire, or even Cynthia, she wouldn't have hesitated nearly as much. Severa isn't the best hunter but she's good with a knife and she's sneaky. Noire is a better shot than Lucina will ever be even if she's sickly and sniffly, and what Cynthia lacks in sneaking skills she makes up for in enthusiasm and either way she's another pair of hands. Saria is a cleric— a healer, not a hunter. Lucina doesn't doubt she can hold her own at least a little bit with a sword like that, but…  
  
It's not even her decision to make, anyway. She waves over sir Frederick and Saria asks again and waits, hands on her cane, for the answer.  
  
"I don't see why not," Frederick admits. "Stay close to Lucina and don't wander. And Lucina—" he gives Lucina a Look that tells her he's not playing around— "No more than a half-hour's walk from the hunting encampment. Are we clear?"  
  
Lucina sighs. "Yes, sir."  
  
Saria doesn't watch him go, but Lucina can tell by the way her head turns that she's tracking where he went. Lucina tries— after a few feet, his footsteps fade into the background noise.  
  
"So… you're blind, huh," Lucina says, and immediately wishes she could stuff the words back into her mouth, where they will never ever see the light of day.  
  
"I can see brightness, kind of," Saria admits. "I can see if the sun is shining or not, or if there's a torch or fireplace near me. But beyond that it's all colors."  
  
"Colors?" Now that's curious. "But you can't see."  
  
"I can feel," Saria says, holding up her hand. "And hear, and smell, and taste. I've got four other perfectly good senses and they can pick up color. I told that boy in the library, Loren, wasn't it? I told him and he started talking about a study he read once about sensory integration that was mostly about why we think pretty food tastes better why it's easier to taste things when you can smell them and suchlike. He's blue."  
  
Lucina doesn't quite understand what she means. Laurent never wears blue— he's always in those lumpy sweater vests made of scratchy wool, and the long over-robes that the mages wear that start out white but always end up singed and patched and stained with who-knows-what. His used to be his mother's and it's soft and worn and the elbows are patched with something that used to be a bedsheet until it the healers ripped it up and turned into bandages for the infirmary. But none of that is blue.  
  
"It's soft, sort of," Saria explains. "Not the same blue you are. You're brighter. Like… blueberries, bursts of flavor when you crush them in your mouth, fireflies buzzing and tapping at the insides of your hand when you catch them, the way the breeze feels when the sun has just gone down. People say the sky is blue then, with little stars, and I can't touch them but I can imagine. Lights in the darkness. Warmth in the cold."  
  
She feels something. Lucina doesn't know how to explain it but somehow that's the most thoughtful comment she's ever received. She has a moment where she wants to ask _tell me what Laurent's color is, tell me about sir Frederick, my aunt Lissa, Gerome, Severa, Cynthia, yourself. Tell me what color it is when you put your hands up to a fire, when you touch glass, when you smell Teddy's gingerbread. Does everybody have a different color or does it repeat? Fish scales and steel blades are the same color to me but are they the same color to you? Have you ever touched a rainbow and if you have did you feel the colors in them? Do shadows have a color? Do the winds? Do sunbeams? Do dreams?_  
  
"I'm sorry," Saria ducks her head. "I got carried away. I know it's strange. I'll stop."  
  
"You don't have to," Lucina blurts. "I mean— it's strange, sure, but I don't mind. It's— it's interesting. I've never been called a light in the darkness before. Is that a compliment?"  
  
"It is what it is," Saria replies. "I never mean to say people's colors as compliments or insults. It just is."  
  
Lucina supposes that makes sense. "Alright."  
  
They march out to hunt a minute later. Lucina keeps glancing back, but Saria has a handle on things— she has her cane and one hand is on her sword, not as if she's expecting to be attacked but as if rubbing the cloudy amber gem in the hilt helps her feel something, or concentrate. Lucina has seen people do that before. Cynthia always snaps her fingers, over and over again, when she gets upset or excited, like a puppy wagging its tail. Lucina won't judge.  
  
She has her bow out, even if she doesn't need to, and she's walking beside sir Frederick on his horse. He's staring at the horizon again, shadows under his eyes like they always are, and Lucina wonders if he's really present in the world of the living since her father died.  
  
"Sir Frederick," she says. He looks back at her but she knows part of his mind is still far away. "Have you hunted a bear before?"  
  
He sighs. He knows where this is going. "A few times," he admits. "They're clever and tough, and can run a long way with only one working lung."  
  
"The bladed arrows can cut through both lungs if I shoot right, right?" Lucina asks, touching the fletching of one of the bladed arrows.  
  
"You won't need to be shooting bear at all, milady," Frederick says patiently. Lucina sighs.  
  
"I know, I know, I'm not supposed to go after anything bigger than the dogs," she sighs. There are five hunting dogs, big hounds bred to hunt with the royal family from a time even before the first Exalt. The oldest and biggest is Nellie, and she's always leading the four others— Scotch, Wallace, Edgar, and Bo. Lucina has played with them since they were puppies and Grim has always been her favorite. Bo is not his real name because he has a pedigree to rival the many, many generations of the Grace bloodline, but Lucina has always called him Bo, short for Beaumont. But they are very big dogs, as far as dogs go, so Lucina thinks this an unfair restriction.  
  
"But if I did come across a bear, out hunting," she continues. "I'd need to know how to kill it, wouldn't I? And a beast like that would feed half the Garrison!"  
  
"You are not going to hunt a bear, milady," Frederick says sternly.  
  
"We need it!" Lucina protests. "And it's milord, not milady, sir Frederick. I'm not a lady."  
  
"Milord," Frederick corrects himself. "You are not going to hunt a bear. Your aunt would have my head if I brought you home full of claw marks."  
  
"I can hold my own," Lucina sticks out her skinny chest, and the effect is somewhat lessened with the fact that her leather cuirass is too big. "I'm not a child anymore, I'm fourteen, and if I'm old enough to fight with the soldiers when the Risen come, I'm old enough to stand my ground against a bear."  
  
Frederick shakes his head in wonder. Lucina has always been a tomboy— more so than Lissa, and this, he will not deny. From when she was big enough to toddle, she's wanted to run and explore and play rough, and has always thought it immensely unfair that she has to learn to play music and dance and write nicely and have good manners when she wanted to be a soldier. _A hero, like papa,_ she'd always say. She wanted to be a hero.  
  
That dream has not changed, but Frederick still worries. Lucina, girl-prince of Ylisse, daughter of Exalt Chrom Grace and his brilliant-minded tactician Robin Hawke, is no longer young enough that he can keep an eye on her. He has always known this day would come, but perhaps it already has and he was too blindsided to notice it. He shudders to think when the same day will come for Cynthia. (He refuses to think about it— Cynthia is only nine years old and that, to him, is far too young an age to be fighting on a battlefield. As long as he's alive, she will not fight.)  
  
"Use your judgement, milord," he finally says. "You'll have not only yourself to guard. Stay vigilant."  
  
"Yes, sir," Lucina replies, grinning. She salutes, and pulls her bow from her shoulder. She's not going to string it, not yet, but she fiddles with the nocking as if she can't wait to hunt. Should Frederick be worried? (Frederick is always worried, whether he should be or not.)  
  
But Lucina is going to disobey anyway, because the young do not always do what they are told and no matter how much death Lucina sees when she closes her eyes she is still young. She is only fourteen and even if it's old enough for her to have hit her growth spurt and have lost all her baby teeth and train with metal swords instead of wood, to Frederick she will always be a child. This is why he's told her that to hunt a bear she has to shoot further back than she would with a boar or with a deer— to shoot from the side with the bladed arrows, to hit both lungs and bring it down in one clean, merciful shot. They are hunters, but there is no need for the animal to suffer, and the cleaner the wound is, the more usable meat there is.  
  
"If you are going to disobey," Frederick says. "At least remember your companion's capabilities. Saria may not be able to run as fast as you are, and she can't see what's in front of her, and even if she could, I doubt she's used to this terrain. Keep your eyes and ears open, and return quickly— and if you are going to disobey, at least bring Saria back to the camp first."  
  
"Yes, sir," Lucina says. "Don't worry. I won't go hunt for bears." However, if one comes across where she is, she isn't going to say no.  
  
Frederick knows this, and knows there is nothing he can do to stop it. He stops the caravan when they're a mile and a half from the safety of the Garrison and that's where the hunters and scouts scatter into the woods. Lucina takes Saria by the hand and goes west, and perhaps luckily for Frederick, he doesn't know of any bears in the area. But the way things go, that's not going to stop Lucina.  
  
Lucina likes the Elyst Woods, really— she's spent time playing in them when she was much younger, before her parents went off to war and didn't come back. She and Kjelle used to challenge one another to climb the trees, and one time Kjelle fell out and broke her arm. She'd won, technically, but Kjelle thought the handicap was unfair. And there were times she'd lead Marcus and Cynthia and Owain on Justice Cabal adventures through what became wild jungles or dangerous tundras with their imaginations, armed with a training sword and a shield she'd made herself. She knows the two miles or so outside the castle and the Garrison like the back of her hand, and she can pinpoint memories where they happened. _There's the tree stump where Brady cleaned out my scraped knee. There's the big log where Owain hid in that game of hide-and-seek. There's that stream I pushed Marcus into once and he pushed me back. There's the pond where dad taught me to fish._ But that memory makes her sad now, so she looks away from the pond and jumps over the stream.  
  
Saria's cane keeps getting caught on the uneven ground. "There's a stream there," Lucina warns. "It's not that wide. Here." She takes Saria's hands and leads her over the stream. Saria's boots squish in the mud and she nearly loses her footing, but she catches herself.  
  
"I can hear it," she says. "But thanks. You seem to know this place really well."  
  
"I hunt out here all the time," Lucina shrugs. "And I used to play here, because mother didn't like it when I tried to play on the castle grounds. Usually it ended up with something breaking and somebody screaming, and at least one fistfight."  
  
"We played in very different ways, then," Saria manages. "I didn't often leave the garden. But there weren't many others for me to play with."  
  
Lucina shrugged. "I guess it's hard to get out and really play with somebody if you have a kid."  
  
_She's not my kid,_ Saria wants to say, except that's not really true at this point. Even if she has absolutely no idea what she's doing, she doesn't want to leave Peanut motherless. And if people are going to assume she's Peanut's mother anyway, why bother even denying it?  
  
"Yeah," Saria shrugs.  
  
"What's up with that, anyway?" Lucina asks. She's not asking to be mean, she's only curious. Lucina continues, "I mean, how did that even work? Even very little newborn babies are really, _really_ big to carry inside of you, and my aunt Lissa says that's the reason girls our age who have babies usually die before the baby is born, because we're literally not big enough to carry them until they're strong enough to be born. They steal blood and bone mass and all this other stuff that I didn't listen to when she told me, and that's why it's so dangerous to be unhealthy if you carry a baby. But your kid is what, three? And if you're my age, that's… eleven. Which is really hard to imagine, because you're pretty much a baby yourself when you're eleven. No judgement or anything, but—"  
  
"Well I suppose I'm just a fuckin' miracle, aren't I," Saria snaps, cutting her off. Lucina claps her mouth shut.  
  
"Sorry," she says tersely. "I didn't realize it bothered you."  
  
"Gee, you didn't?" Saria rolled her eyes. "Whatever. It doesn't matter. It's fine."  
  
Lucina feels awkward. "Really, I'm sorry," she tries to say.  
  
"It's _fine_ ," Saria insists. "Let's just find the herbs so I can get back to the camp and you can hunt in peace."  
  
And since Lucina has no idea what it is she did or said to annoy Saria, she shuts her mouth and keeps walking. She keeps her eyes peeled for the Wyvern's Ears— they grow near water, Lucina thinks, so she keeps the stream within earshot. She eyes the base of every tree for the distinctive red-tipped plant, and if she sees it, she'll let Saria know, but Lucina just can't figure what it is she said wrong. This happens a lot when she's talking to somebody new— she'll start running her mouth and something she says will make them back off or bristle or clam up, and when she tries to apologize and say she doesn't understand they'll snap or just say to forget about it. Lucina just wants to make friends, but she can't do that if she offends them by running her mouth.  
  
"I'm sorry if bringing up the whole you-having-a-kid thing offended you," she says. "Is that it?"  
  
Saria purses her lips. "Yeah. Yeah, that's it. I know you didn't mean to."  
  
"I'm sorry," Lucina says. "This happens sometimes. I try to make friends, and I end up talking until I hurt somebody."  
  
Saria is quiet. "It doesn't matter. Let's just find the plant."  
  
"It _does_ matter," Lucina insists. "I want us to be friends, so I need to know for sure if what I said didn't— didn't dredge up any bad memories, or anything. Or if I did, I need to know how to not do it again."  
  
Usually saying that helps, but Saria just sighs. "I admire your willingness to make friends with a total stranger, but I think it's best we don't bother. I'm not here to make friends. I don't want to make a life here."  
  
Lucina frowns. "If you're not here to make friends, what _are_ you here to do? Because last I checked, the Garrison doesn't have a purpose other than to be somewhere safe for people to stay."  
  
"Why does it matter to you?" Saria demands. "What do you care?"  
  
"Because if we're going to be in the same army, we're going to need to have some sort of camaraderie," Lucina replies. "My— someone important once told me that people need to have contact with each other if they want to do anything without going insane. That's why friends exist. To help each other out towards a common goal, you know?"  
  
Saria shakes her head. "You're deluded."  
  
Lucina frowns. She's not going to stand for that. "What? Who says?"  
  
"You can't be friends with everybody," Saria says, which Lucina wants to object to but Saria isn't done. "And I shouldn't even be here in the first place. This is Ylisse, and as soon as it's safe and I can find a way, I'm going back to my real home, in Plegia."  
  
Lucina can't believe it. "This is about _countries?_ Now, of all times? There are undead rising from the ground and all you're thinking about is countries?"  
  
"I have ears," Saria says miserably. "I can hear the way people talk about me. They don't trust me and it's because I came here from Plegia with my mother because she said it was safe." And then she mumbles something that she seems to regret, because she ducks her head and clenches her cane in her soft hands so hard her knuckles turn white.  
  
Lucina doesn't know what to say. "I—"  
  
"Don't," Saria cuts her off. She sounds too bitter for somebody Lucina's age, but Lucina supposes experience will do that. "Stop trying."  
  
"Why should I?" Lucina demands.  
  
_"Because I should be dead!"_ Saria finally snaps. Her cane breaks in her hands and falls onto the ground in two pieces. The _SNAP_ echoes through the forest and in Lucina's ears.  
  
Saria regrets it. She falls to her knees and tries to push the pieces back together, but her hands are shaking too badly to get a grip on them. She lets them fall again and blinks, eyes filling with tears, and buries her face in her hands.  
  
Lucina doesn't know what to do. She crouches in front of Saria and watches her shoulders shake, and Lucina has the sudden impression that Saria has not cried since before whatever it was that brought her here happened— and whatever it is that happened was very, very recent. Lucina wonders who she lost, and thinks that it must've been somebody important.  
  
"I'm sorry," Lucina says. "I didn't realize. But I'm glad you're not dead."  
  
_"En'ayah jahev aya an aisha'rah,"_ Saria mumbles. "That makes one of us."  
  
Lucina sits next to her on the ground. There's no fixing the cane without a good bit of glue, and even then it may not be as steady.  
  
"Who did you lose?" she asks, quietly.  
  
Saria swallows. "My mother," she murmurs. "She— I-I can't fight, so she told me to take Peanut and hide in the smithy when the Risen attacked the town we were staying in. I could _hear_ it happening, a-and the _silence_ at the end... And I thought… I think that maybe if I hadn't waited so damned long for her to open the door and tell me it was okay to come out, I would've been able to hear her last words. But I didn't. I _hid_ and _waited_ like a coward so now I don't even know what she thought in death."  
  
She takes a breath. "It should've been me that died out there. Then she and Peanut could've gotten to the Garrison safely."  
  
Survivor's guilt— Lucina has seen that. She's heard Teddy talk about it sometimes, that he thinks it should've been him that died instead of his mother, and though Frederick will say _none of that, son,_ Lucina knows he feels the same way. Lucina supposes she would, too, if it weren't absolutely Robin's fault that her father is dead.  
  
But Lucina gets it. "I understand."  
  
"How could _you_ understand?" Saria demands, tone accusatory. Lucina takes it personally for a second before she remembers that people say things they don't mean when they're hurting.  
  
"I lost my father two years ago," Lucina says. "He was murdered, actually. By my mother. She and my brother vanished into thin air not long after."  
  
Saria breathes through her nose. She rubs away her tears with the heel of her hand. "I'm sorry."  
  
"It's not your fault," Lucina says. "And it's not your fault your mother isn't here, either. You stayed hidden so you could get yourself and Peanut to safety, and isn't that what she would've wanted?"  
  
She's quiet for a long time. Then she stands, holding the pieces of her cane. She puts them in the bag on her back. "Yeah," she says. She fidgets, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt. Lucina gets the sense that she didn't actually help that much.  
  
"Let's find those plants," Lucina decides. "I think it'll go better if we're nearer to the stream. Come on." She gently take Saria's arm with her bandaged-up hand. Saria slips her hand into it anyway, and Lucina supposes she doesn't blame her because that just makes more sense. Maybe they'll talk more about this later— or maybe Lucina will suggest she bring it up to her aunt Lissa, who's much better at this sort of thing.  
  
Wyvern's Ears, Saria tells her when Lucina asks, are most often used in medicine for their light numbing properties, if they need a little extra strength. At least, that's why they use them in the infirmary, since they've stopped using staves. Saria knows the recipes for a few poultices common in Plegia that help with arthritis and clear blocked sinuses— because that's how people heal in Plegia, she says. They make the medicine or poultice and have the patient eat it or smear it over the hurt area, and charge the power with a spell. It usually hurts a lot all at once, but it does usually fix the problem. Allergic reactions are common but if the patient is allergic, they can usually stop the reaction before they die. Usually. (Saria has not brought up this fact to the healers.)  
  
They find the Wyvern's Ears in the hollow of a tree where the stream grows into a babbling creek, too wide to step over and up to Lucina's knees at the deepest point. It's where Marcus nearly drowned trying to run after a toy that fell in. He'd been about four and Lucina immensely regretted taking him to play in the forest, because she'd dragged him back waterlogged and crying, and her parents had scolded her for not keeping a closer eye on him. _He fell in all on his own,_ Lucina had protested, and thought it was immensely unfair that she had to take responsibility for her little brother's clumsiness when she herself was only eight. But it'd turned out alright and she did need to have some responsibility as the oldest sibling, so.  
  
Saria crouches to gather them— the leaves are in bunches of four, and Saria picks them and curls them into bundles that she ties with strings, then puts them in her bag. It's a steady pattern— pick, bundle, place. She digs out the roots carefully and rolls them into another bundle, her fingers careful and soft, and puts it into a little cloth bag. They must need the roots, too.  
  
Lucina takes the opportunity to wander a few steps further afield— over the stream, she can hear songbirds, screeching at each other or perhaps trying to mate, because that's what birds sing about. In her time as a hunter, Lucina has learned that the sounds of bugs and birds are basically all of nature trying to get laid. It's not too different from hanging around a bunch of teenagers all day, which is what she does with the rest of her time.  
  
There's a deer in a clearing— a big, hardy-looking buck that's shed his winter horns, snuffling around at some edible-looking roots. He's not so big Lucina can't drag him back to camp, and at least to Lucina, it looks like an easy shot. She grins and strings her bow, then pulls a barbed arrow from her quiver and nocks it. She breathes in when she draws, the bowstring taut near her cheek. For a second it feels like the world has narrowed to herself and the buck, and she's about to get the pierce of a lifetime. She kisses the fletching of the arrow, just in case.  
But before she can shoot, the buck looks up and bounds off, off into the woods. Lucina scowls and lowers her bow, and then she feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.  
  
There's a moment in everyone's life, particularly when they're young, inexperienced, or both, where they realize they've just waltzed right into immediate danger. And perhaps they don't know what that danger is quite yet, or perhaps they do know that as soon as they turn around, they're going to realize just how incredibly, galactically and cosmically _fucked_ they are. Lucina may be a bit dense but she certainly isn't dumb, and she can tell by the low, almost-inaudible growl and feeling of heat and mass behind her that she's up the creek without a paddle.  
  
So she turns around and there's a bear.  
  
There's a solid two seconds where hunter and bear stare at each other— and the bear is quite the bear, from Lucina's perspective. It's a big black bear and it's probably hungry, and it more than likely doesn't like Lucina for intruding on its territory and scaring off its lunch. Which is fine, because Lucina knows she's the intruder here, and she does know food is scarce so she understands that it's angry at her for trying to take its next meal.  
  
But there's no time to muse upon the workings of nature now. She staggers back but the bear has already swiped at her with its big claws, sharpened on tree trunks. There's no pain when she feels it rip through her coat and her armor and gouge at her shoulder. She doesn't have time to think about it. She drops her bow and bolts.  
  
She grabs Saria's sleeve without ceremony and yanks her back from the plants, and Saria makes a confused noise but Lucina just shouts "BEAR."  
  
She shoves Saria in the direction of the camp and Saria runs, stumbling over bushes and roots that she can't see, and Lucina feels bad and she knows it's a horrible, horrible idea but it's either that or let the bear go after the weak link in the pack. She draws her shortsword. Her shoulder is bleeding heavily but, oddly, she doesn't feel a thing except a numbing panic and a sense that she should be running. She felt the same way battling the Risen the first time and learned to suppress it. This isn't that different, she tells herself.  
  
The bear roars. Lucina makes herself breathe. She grips her shortsword tighter and lunges, right for the bear's lungs. The bear swats again and knocks her away, the claws yanking at the ties of her armor. Lucina grips her sword for dear life and rolls, and winces when her hurt shoulder hits the ground. But she stands back up and backs away, trying to think of what Frederick said to do in the event of a bear attack.  
  
It may not be an attack, of course. Lucina has no doubts that a bear this determined would've already killed her if it were going to attack. But whatever the case is, it's there and it's big and it swipes again, knocking her back, grazing her breastplate enough to dig into the cured leather but not quite enough to reach her chest. The bear shakes its big, furry head from side to side, its jaws snapping. That seems quite predatory, but again, Lucina is pretty sure she should be bolting instead of thinking. Her sword hand shakes. She makes it stop and ducks to the side, edging around and back, trying to put as much distance between herself and the bear as possible. The bear snaps. Lucina kind of feels like crying.  
  
But she sinks her sword right behind its shoulder joint, into what she hopes is a lung but may not be because what she's learned from Frederick is fuzzy with adrenaline. Because contrary to popular belief, adrenaline does not make you a badass fighting master, it makes you want to run as fast as your puny human legs can carry you and then probably throw up afterwards. The bear roars in pain and swivels around and suddenly Lucina's facing its head again, and all those big sharp teeth lining a lethal jaw. Lucina avoids thinking about what would happen if her head wound up between those jaws. She wrenches her sword out and jumps back, back, and on top of a fallen log. The bear is unperturbed.  
  
Her bow— she reaches back for it, but realizes with an instant of panic that she dropped it who-knew-where back when she first realized how fucked she was. _Great_ , she thinks. She's about to take on a fully-grown black bear with a shortsword and a wounded shoulder. She has a moment where she thinks that if she survives this, she's never going to deliberately try to bring down anything bigger than a deer.  
  
But she's faster than the bear and she's a small target to hit, so she works this to her advantage. She dodges another swat and jumps from the log to a tree stump, and back around to the bear's other side. The bear growls and swats at her, and she jabs her blade through its paw. The bear roars and rears onto its hind legs, wrenching Lucina's shortsword from her hands. Now unarmed, Lucina seriously considers running— but bears can outrun hunters and dogs and horses any day, and she doesn't want to lead the bear back to camp.  
  
Thunder arcs through the air. She smells electricity strong enough that it makes her nostrils hurt, and she jumps back just in time for a bolt of lightning to hit the bear square in the back. Lucina's back hits the ground. Pain flares. Bile rises in her throat but she stands, and the bear, too, turns to investigate the source of the thunder.  
  
Lucina doesn't want to see Saria standing there, sword in hand, gritting her teeth because she's terrified as all get-out but like Hell she's running away now. She swings the sword again and this time the thunder swings itself out from the jagged blade like a whip. The bear roars and falls, stunned but not killed.  
  
"Lucina!" Saria calls, holding up her bow.  
  
"Here," Lucina croaks, pulling herself to her feet. She coughs. "Here!"  
  
Saria throws the bow. It sails past the bear and Lucina snatches it from its path in the air. She nocks another arrow and draws. She's at the bear's side— a perfect opportunity. She kisses the arrow. She shoots.  
  
It's a clean shot, right in the middle— right through the bear's lungs, where Frederick told her to shoot. The bear lets out a dying roar and collapses to the ground. Lucina, hands white-knuckled around her bow, breathes.  
  
She's on the ground before she knows what she's doing. Saria shouts something— fear? Alarm? It all sounds the same. The edges of her vision have turned red. Her shoulder is bloody and it's ruined her coat and sweater and shirt below the torn-open strap of her armor. _That'll be a mess to clean up,_ she thinks dimly.  
  
Saria kneels next to her. Her hands scan the damage and her face pales. She tugs off her too-big cloak and starts ripping the sturdy green wool into strips and tying them together. With shaky hands, she feels for the ties and buckles on Lucina's cuirass and pulls it off.  
  
She's a little scuffed up, Lucina notices. Her stockings are torn and her skirt is dirty. Her knees are scraped. Probably from trying to run through a forest she can't see, Lucina wagers. She bites her lip as she starts wrapping the strips of her cloak around Lucina's shoulder. _It's not that bad, don't worry,_ Lucina tries to say, noticing the tears in the corners of Saria's eyes. But that'd be a lie, because Lucina kind of feels like she's dying.  
  
Saria says something that's clouded through a haze of pain and Saria's own anxious voice. She's scared, terrified, but it's a relief to hear her voice at all. Lucina makes herself grin. "That could've been worse."  
  
Saria kind of wants to smack her. Instead she rolls Lucina onto her side and puts her bag under her head. She thinks she's very, very lucky that this falls under the basic first aid Lissa taught her.  
  
"Thanks for that," Lucina manages. "The save. I don't— _agh_ — I don't think I could've made it without your help." She tries to shift and winces, and Saria puts a hand on her arm and makes her stay still.  
  
"Don't move too much," Saria tells her. "You realize you could've died."  
  
"Yes," Lucina admits. "But I wouldn't. And it all worked out, didn't it?"  
  
"I wouldn't call this working out," Saria says. "Don't scare me like that, alright?" The smell of blood is thick in her nose, hot and heady and red. It stings on her knees and she feels it on her hands, tinged red from inspecting Lucina's bear wound.  
  
Lucina hums. She squints up at Saria and tries to blink past her cloudy vision. "You do care," she notices.  
  
Saria chuckles. "Hard not to care about the person you just spilled your guts to. And there's this thing called _empathy_."

Lucina nods. She winces— she hadn't realized how many muscles were connected to her shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."  
  
"Then don't do that again," Saria tells her, and she tries to make it sound demanding but she fails because her voice breaks. "I don't want anyone else to die. Not while I can do something about it."  
  
And even Lucina can tell it's about her mother. She doesn't ask. She knows.  
  
"It's good to have you looking out for me," Lucina says, grinning blearily. "I'll look out for you, too. We can watch each other's backs. That's what friends do."  
  
"Friends," Saria echoes. She rubs at her eyes. "Yeah, sure. We can be friends."  
  
"In that case," Lucina says. "Let's try the introductions thing again. I think the last few times were too awkward."  
  
Saria rolls her eyes a little, but she nods.  
  
Lucina pulls up her good hand and takes Saria's, to shake it. "Hi there," she says. "I'm Lucina."  
  
Saria almost wants to laugh, but she shakes Lucina's hand. "Hi, Lucina," she replies. "I'm Saria."


	19. A Warrior's Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’re smarter than you seem,” Saria decides, grinning just a little and the sight of it makes Lucina’s heart swell a little— she’s smiling, Lucina thinks, and she knows what fake smiles look like and this is a real one. You deserve to smile all the time, she thinks. And then she decides she’ll do whatever she can to make sure Saria can smile for real all the time. That’s her cause worth fighting for._
> 
> _“Thanks, I think,” Lucina admits, and Saria actually laughs then, just a little. Had Lucina the skill to parse it, it’d sound like the wind rustling wildflowers in a meadow, like songbirds chasing one another in the breeze, like how hot tea on a cool afternoon smells, like catching a butterfly on your hand and waiting for it to flap away gently. What color was that? Lucina didn’t know, but as soon as she got the thoughts together and found a color that fit, she’d tell Saria._
> 
> Lissa lectures, Saria worries, and Teddy brings gingerbread.

Lissa, as expected, is furious.  
  
Once Lucina's shoulder is stitched up and disinfected and she's no longer dizzy on medicinal fumes, Lissa leaves the infirmary, then comes back with a bottle of brandy and a look of righteous anger born of worry. Once she's done being angry she pours two glasses of brandy and hands one to Lucina.  
  
Lucina takes it. She looks at her aunt, confused.  
  
"You know we toast after battles," Lissa says. "Your fight with the bear was a battle, too." She raises her glass. Lucina raises hers as well but doesn't comment on the fact that they toast to winning battles, not barely escaping them with their lives, and they usually use hard pear cider and not brandy. But Lissa knocks her glass back and Lucina scrunches her face shut and downs the little glass in one gulp, and her head reels. It tastes kind of like how perfume smells, with a cloying bitterness that coats her throat, and there's something fruity in there like plums, or perhaps apples. She coughs, and looks at Lissa as if asking how she could drink this stuff constantly.  
  
Lissa chuckles and sets the bottle aside. She corks it. "You get used to it," she says. "I hope you won't have to."  
  
"I don't think I want to," Lucina admits. "I like the cider better." Lissa only ever lets her have a very little bit, just enough to knock back in one gulp, and never any more. But the cider is always warm and fruity and it settled in her stomach like a contented animal, and Lucina thinks it’s much nicer to get down than the brandy Lissa always has.  
  
"Don't we all," Lissa chuckles. She’s quiet for a bit, and Lucina sets the little empty glass aside. She wishes she hadn’t gotten hurt so badly— she’d much rather be up, practicing her swing or maybe working on her blocking, or maybe fighting Ke’tu again because they hadn’t gotten to that rematch quite yet. But it’s nice to talk with her aunt. She’s always so busy, it feels like she doesn’t have time for her family anymore.  
  
“You’re very brave,” Lissa comments. “Most young soldiers I know would’ve run screaming back to camp.”  
  
“I didn’t want the bear to get after Saria,” Lucina shrugs, then winces at the pain that shoots like lightning through her shoulder. It’s wrapped up in real bandages now instead of Saria’s cloak, and the loose shirt she wears over it has ties at the top to let the medics do their work on it while preserving Lucina’s modesty. “She doesn’t know the forest and she can’t see the hazards. The bear would’ve gotten to her first.”  
  
Lissa nods. It reminds her of something Chrom would do— but then, so do a lot of things Lucina does. She tends to refrain from telling Lucina this, because Lucina isn’t her father and it isn’t fair for her to grow up in his shadow even if he’s dead. She’ll get enough of that from people that don’t know her. Better Lissa doesn’t contribute to that. (She knows what it’s like to live in the shadow of a family member who seemed almost too perfect, too good.)  
  
“But if she hadn’t stepped in, I’d definitely be dead,” Lucina adds. “I shouldn’t get all the credit. Saria came in with her sword, and— and _whoosh!_ There was this whip of lightning from her sword! It was so cool! And that gave her time to throw me my bow, and I shot it right where sir Frederick told me to with bears, right in the middle. But I wouldn’t have been able to without her, so.” She almost shrugs again, and catches herself before she does. “And she patched me up, too. I probably owe her my life now.” Lissa knows she’s not joking. Lucina never jokes.  
  
“I’d discuss the issue of you owing her your life with her,” Lissa suggests. “You may have returned the gesture without even realizing.”  
  
Lucina nods solemnly. “We’re friends now,” she says. “The first couple of times we met, it was awkward. We’re trying again.”  
  
“It’s good to have new beginnings,” Lissa tells her.  
  
Lucina thinks for a minute. She fidgets with the quilt with her good hand. She’s taken the bandages off, and there’s tender, pink skin growing where the blisters once were. Her knuckles, still, are bruised and scabby. She has nice hands, long and brown and slender like her mother’s. Her fingernails are stubby and bitten, and streaked with little bits of white that happen when you’re malnourished, a way for your body to tell you you need to eat better.  
  
“I don’t think it was brave,” Lucina admits. “I was scared. Do you know when you feel like crying and throwing up and running away all at once? I didn’t think hunting would be like that because hunting is always different from battles, but…” She trails off, looking at her knees. Lissa tucks one of Lucina’s stray curls behind her ear. Just like her father, it’ll straighten out when she’s halfway through puberty. It runs in the family.  
  
“What’s brave is that you were scared but you did it anyway,” Lissa says. “You know that. Bravery isn’t not being scared.”  
  
“I know,” Lucina mumbles. “Still. It felt too much like I was on the field.” She wonders if the bear will add itself to her nightmares. She’s learned to tune them out by now, but that doesn’t change that they’re there and they always feel so real— like the monsters under the bed from when she was small have grown and morphed into undead monsters in tattered leathers and tarnished iron. Maybe she won’t sleep tonight, just in case.  
  
“You don’t have to go out on the field,” Lissa tells her. “In fact, I don’t want any of you kids out on the battlefield. You’re too young yet, and no matter how quick and determined you are, that’ll only get you so far. I won’t have you throwing your lives away for nothing.”  
  
_It’s not for nothing, it’s for you,_ Lucina wants to protest, but she stops herself. After all, what does _she_ know about sacrifice? She sighs through her nose and tries to squirm, and winces again when a jolt of pain goes through her shoulder. Maribelle kept saying she’s lucky the bear didn’t tear her arm right off, but it feels like it ripped into some important muscle that moves her chest and the rest of her arm, and whenever she moves it hurts more. At this point, it’s not just painful, it’s annoying.  
  
Lucina thinks. “I’d do it again,” she says. “I’d go back out there, if it meant I was protecting the Garrison. Any day of the year, I’d do it. So long as I can lift a sword.”  
  
It’s evident, in these times, that Chrom taught her to speak. Lissa almost hears his voice saying it instead of hers, and shoves that thought away. Chrom is dead, she tells herself firmly. Has been for two years. She _saw_ him die, saw the life leave his eyes when Robin’s knife sunk itself into his gut. She saw him put in a wooden box to be shipped back home, saw his shroud burned at the service, saw his ashes scatter over the lake north of Ylisstol. There’s no doubt in her mind that he’s dead, no matter how much of him she sees in his daughter. Lucina is nobody but herself, and even if Lissa can see Chrom in her mannerisms and temperament, in the end Chrom is just another dead soldier that left his children one sword and a world of troubles.  
  
But she chuckles. “Your father would be so proud,” she says, without thinking.  
  
“He’d lecture me for going off on my own and fighting a bear,” Lucina replies, practically. “Remember he didn’t even want me learning how to fight like a real soldier? He wanted me to duel, like some dandy trying to impress a star-struck village girl.”  
  
And Lissa has to admit that’s true. Lucina was twelve when he died, so she has solid memories of him. Lissa can tell by the way Lucina’s frown twists when she thinks of her mother that she hasn’t forgiven Robin. That’s alright. Lissa hasn’t, either.  
  
“Don’t say Robin would be proud, too,” Lucina says, before Lissa can say anything. “I don’t want her to be proud of me. She’s not my mother.”  
  
There’s something about the fact that she’s referring to her mother by her first name, something about the way she says the name like it tastes bitter on her tongue— like she’s trying to make herself absolutely despise Robin for murdering her father, but all she can muster is the betrayal and hurt and confusion that happens when someone you really, really love and care about stabs you in the back. She thinks it should be simple anger that fuels the fire burning behind her eyes, but it’s not. It’s a sickly feeling creeping up her spine and telling her it was all a lie, and there’s some part of her saying _but it’s mother._  
  
So Lissa nods. “I’m proud of you,” she says, reaching out and putting her hand on Lucina’s good shoulder. “And I’m still alive, not being quoted from beyond the grave, so you can know what I say is for certain.”  
  
Lucina blinks. She doesn’t know how to respond to that, but she nods. “I’ll try not to die next time I’m on the field,” she promises.  
  
“After you recover?” Lissa raises an eyebrow. “In another five months?”  
  
“I’ll make it four!” Lucina insists. “I’ll heal quick. Just see if I don’t!”  
  
She’s so stubborn— always has been. But in these uncertain times, a certain amount of grit is required to get through the day. Lissa is glad she’s stubborn. She stands, the mis-healed bones in her bad knee clicking and creaking, and tucks Lucina’s bangs out of her eyes. They move back when she turns her head to follow Lissa’s movement, and Lissa doesn’t know what she expected. Impossible hair runs in the family, too, along with stick-out ears and blue eyes.  
  
“I’ll be back to visit you later,” she promises. “Cooperate for aunt Maribelle and the clerics, alright? I’m off to make that damned bear into a coat.”  
  
“I _always_ cooperate,” Lucina protests. Lissa snorts, but covers it with a cough, rubbing her mouth with her hand. She pats Lucina’s shoulder and leaves to attend to the fidgety apprentice mage with a message for her from the tower.  
  
Lucina idly picks at the stitching of the quilt. She sends a longing glance to Falchion, propped up against the wall beside her bed, and wishes she could go train. But the clerics are keeping an eye on her to make sure she doesn’t try to rip out the stitches in her shoulder, even though she’s sure it’ll be fine. She’s only been on bed rest for forty-five minutes, and she already feels like tearing her hair out. It’s going to be a long season.  
  
Seconds in the infirmary tick by, one at a time, and Lucina knows because the infirmary’s wall clock is right across from her bed. She watches the doctors in their green aprons and masks scurry back and fourth, carrying bandages and salves and tonics and the occasional tome. She listens to the goings-on from between the curtains that section off her “room” from the rest of the infirmary— people talking about where it hurts and what happened to it, or sneezing or coughing or sniffling. Occasionally she’ll hear a loud CRUNCH and screaming barely stifled by whoever-it-is biting down on a belt. Clerics call to each other in terms Lucina doesn’t understand about remedies and conditions, or asking on the status of each other or a patient. Once in the perhaps ten minutes Lucina’s watching, the door slams open and two soldiers drag an injured friend between them, his leg a mangled, bloody mess, his shouts of pain muffled behind gritted teeth. They’re telling him _it’ll be alright, Roddy, they’ll get you fixed up right, you’ll get back on your feet in no time, Roddy, come on, Roddy, don’t give up, it’ll be alright._ Lucina mentally wishes Roddy a quick and painless recovery.  
  
By ten minutes into her endless wait, Lucina feels like screaming. But she reaches over to the table beside her bed and leafs through one of the books Lissa left her— there’s a battered _Red Dawns of Aeon_ filled with Owain’s bookmarks and annotations, a _History of Akanea Volume 1_ that Lucina hasn’t touched since her history lessons stopped, some faded old storybook with _E. L. GRACE_ written in a child’s practiced cursive on the inside cover, and something called _EVERFATES: THE BLADEWALKER SAGA_ that doesn’t look like it’s been touched since the third century. Lucina wants to groan dramatically and flop back onto her pillow, but her shoulder won’t allow that and for now she’s propped up on a stack of them to keep her stable. Lucina has never been one to stay inside and read, unless it was a book of combat forms.  
  
She sighs heavily and lets her head loll back on the pillows. The ceiling is fascinating— said nobody ever, but it’s all she has to focus on. She feels like tearing her eyes out. How is she going to survive five months of this disruption of her usual routine?  
  
She sees Saria on more than one occasion, a new cane in one hand and a basket of medical supplies in another, the scrapes on her knees patched up with gauze. Her hands are still shaky, Lucina notices. She remembers that Saria isn’t a soldier— Saria has never seen a real battle a day in her life, and she’s not used to running and fighting for her own survival. What she did with the bear was a moment of genius, but it wasn’t genius brought about by studying tactics or anything, it was genius because Saria has miscellaneous knowledge gleaned from any book with raised print she could get her hands on. Maybe she’d known something about bears beforehand, Lucina reasons. Does Plegia have bears?  
  
Lucina has lost count of the minutes by the time Saria checks on her. She’s somewhere between dozing and daydreaming about what she’s going to do when she gets out of here, which might as well be solitary confinement as far as Lucina is concerned. Maribelle said that she’ll probably be fine to move back to her room as soon as Maribelle gets a spare moment to make sure the wound is responding well to the medicine, and Lucina can start strengthening her arm again once most of the tissue damage has healed. Maribelle guessed a month because Lucina is young and young people heal quickly, and they were able to clean it out and stitch it up without too much trouble, and she’s not allergic to any medicinal plants that they know of. But a month, to Lucina, may as well be ten years. She’s going to spend the rest of her life stuck under medical watch and it’s all because of that gods-damned bear.  
  
The least that could’ve happened was a hero’s welcome, Lucina inwardly sighs. The hero coming back from the final battle wounded but alive is in every masked vigilante novel she’s ever read. Clutching a serious (but not too serious) wound, they’d stumble back victorious, holding a trophy of the final battle, and everyone would cheer for them while their loyal companions helped them to get that wound treated. Of course, maybe that had happened, but Lucina didn’t know it— she’d only been semi-conscious when Frederick took her back to the Garrison, and any sounds of cheering would’ve been drowned out with the ringing in her head.  
  
But ideally, it would’ve been nice if she were hailed as a hero. She’s always wanted to be one, like her father— what she wanted most was to help people and protect what mattered, but in her daydreams, it was nice to think about the glamor and the attention. Coming home after a thrilling battle to her friends, whom she’d later regale with the story (even though telling stories about battles, in practice, was fairly boring unless one had a way with words), knowing she’d once again saved them all from certain doom and/or starvation. And of course, being proficient in battle wouldn’t hurt her chances of a lovely young cleric or scout about her age telling her how _brave_ she was and (maybe) how _strong_ she must be, and how _dashing_ she looked out there on the field. And of course Lucina would respond to the attention humbly (but not too humbly) telling her _it’s my pleasure, of course— I would fight any battle to ensure the safety of the people._ And maybe later they’d take a walk after dinner and hold hands if Lucina’s maybe-date wanted to, and she’d ask—  
  
“Are you doing alright?” Saria asks, knocking Lucina from her daydreams. Lucina blinks and looks back over at Saria, face flushed.  
  
_Again?_ Lucina wants to demand. And then, _why is it always you that cuts off my daydream right before the good part?_ It’s either some freaky coincidence of right-place-right-time, or Naga is fucking with her. Considering that the gods are dead, Lucina supposes it’s just a frustrating coincidence.  
  
“Y-yeah,” Lucina manages. “Just bored, is all.”  
  
“Sorry to hear that,” Saria says. It’s exactly as awkward as it sounds. Somehow that sentence only ever serves to make things more awkward or otherwise ill-fitting— telling whoever you’re talking to that you really, really want to have empathy for them, but you don’t actually know what to say. It’s well-intentioned, but all it really does is make things feel like a pair of shoes too small in the side and too big in the toe.  
  
“I, um,” Saria tries, bless her heart, to save the conversation. “Do you need anything? Doctor Fey took me off courier duty and told me to take the rest of the day off because I seem “too shaken,” or something, but I’m fine. I-I can go get you something, if you like.”  
  
“No, no, it’s fine,” Lucina insists. Saria does seem a bit on-edge. Her hands are shaking when she clasps them together, and her ears are pricked like she’s expecting something to jump through the wall and attack. She looks like the adrenaline from the bear attack that morning hasn’t worn off yet. Lucina frowns. “I think you should go lie down. You’re trembling.”  
  
“No I’m not,” Saria lies. Lucina raises an eyebrow, remembers she can’t see, and puts her eyebrow back down.  
  
Lucina lowers her voice. “It’s alright to be scared,” she says. “You’re still anxious about the fight, aren’t you? You keep hearing it growl behind you, terrified that when you turn around, its claws will be at your neck. You’ll feel the fear in your dreams when you sleep, for awhile— or maybe you’ll be too scared to sleep, because your mind is telling you the danger hasn’t gone.”  
  
Saria is silent. She sits on the creaky wooden chair next to Lucina’s bedside and clasps her hands together tightly, as if she’s praying, except Lucina has never seen anybody clench them quite that tightly. Libra was the most faithful person Lucina ever knew, and he always said prayer was a cathartic, calming thing. Of course, he also said it was different for everybody.  
  
“It wasn’t the fight that scared me,” Saria murmured. “It was the blood. I could smell it on you from the minute you shouted— thick and red, filling every sense, leaving your body and draining you dry. Heavy, almost sour, metal in my mouth, more of it every second and if it stops before I stop it, you’d _die_ and I wouldn’t have done anything. I don’t want anybody else to die while I can do something about it but right then, the possibility was so _real_ , it— I knew I couldn’t leave you, even if you said to go. I couldn’t leave you to die and live with the regret.”  
  
Lucina hums, letting Saria know she heard. “I’m sorry for scaring you,” she says. “I was scared, too.”  
  
Saria shakes her head. “You face things like this on a daily basis. You’re braver than I’ll ever be.”  
  
“I don’t feel brave in the moment, usually,” Lucina admits. “Nobody does. Fighting is terrifying. There’s nothing heroic about swinging a sword for dear life because it’s either you or them and you just don’t want to die. It’s only after the fact when it seems heroic. So if I seem brave, it’s because it’s over— when it’s happening, I’m just as scared as you.”  
  
Saria wasn’t expecting an answer like that— but Lucina’s given it a lot of thought, and her father taught her how to turn her thoughts into words that people will listen to. He was very good at that, back in the day. Lucina remembers her mother talking about how his speeches would inspire armies to fight twice as hard, and convince a people in mourning for their last Exalt that things would be alright. She always got a look in her eyes that was almost sad when she talked about the glory days of Ylisse’s sword arm, when she was the tactician for what was mostly a glorified band of mercenaries with the Exalt’s seal of approval. Like she missed the days of taking inventory by hand and sleeping in a narrow soldier’s bunk, planning out chore schedules and leaving notes on blue paper on Chrom’s door because he’s less likely to ignore them if they’re his favorite color. Lucina doesn’t know it but she was thinking about when his words managed to touch her heart, to shine light into her mind that maybe she’s worth something after all, maybe she _does_ deserve love and friendship and respect, maybe she _does_ deserve to not hate herself constantly and maybe she _does_ deserve to have somebody who looks at her and thinks of how lucky they are to know her. Chrom never knew this but he made it his goal to say that he loved her and to have her reply _I know,_ and even if she never did while he lived, there was a part of her that said _he does love me, he really does_ whenever he held her close and kissed her lips and said _I am the luckiest man alive._ Of course, Lucina knows none of this— she will one day, but that day has not come.  
  
“You were brave, too,” Lucina tells her. “If it weren’t for you stunning the bear with your sword and throwing me my bow, we’d both be dead.”  
  
Saria flushes and ducks her head, cherry-red hair dangling in her face. Lucina wants to brush it aside but that’s too familiar a gesture for what they are now— friends, perhaps, but not that close.  
  
“You’re smarter than you seem,” Saria decides, grinning just a little and the sight of it makes Lucina’s heart swell a little— she’s smiling, Lucina thinks, and she knows what fake smiles look like and this is a real one. _You deserve to smile all the time,_ she thinks. And then she decides she’ll do whatever she can to make sure Saria can smile for real all the time. That’s her cause worth fighting for.  
  
“Thanks, I think,” Lucina admits, and Saria actually laughs then, just a little. Had Lucina the skill to parse it, it’d sound like the wind rustling wildflowers in a meadow, like songbirds chasing one another in the breeze, like how hot tea on a cool afternoon smells, like catching a butterfly on your hand and waiting for it to flap away gently. What color was that? Lucina didn’t know, but as soon as she got the thoughts together and found a color that fit, she’d tell Saria.  
  
Teddy, who has been standing there for about five minutes watching them teeter along the line between talking and flirting, clears his throat. Saria jumps, having not noticed at all, and Lucina grins, a little sheepish. Had he heard her speech, and her trying to make things up to Saria for saving her life and all that?  
  
“I hate to interrupt, but,” he says, clutching the basket under his arm and sounding exactly like a mother hen about to fuss over her chicks, “I heard about what happened. Lucina, are you alright? Of _course_ you’re not, your arm got clawed open, but—“ and on he goes, setting another blanket over Lucina (just in case) and pulling out a flask of tea and a dense, round loaf of pumpkin bread. He acts like the injury was much more serious than it actually was, but in his defense, Lucina came back pale as a sheet with an arm wrapped up in a blood-soaked cloak, so naturally _everyone_ assumed it was much worse than it is.  
  
Teddy cuts himself off. “Listen to me talk,” he chuckles. “I shouldn’t bother you, you’re still recovering. Here— I made pumpkin bread. That’ll put some color back in your cheeks.”  
  
He cuts off a slice with his pocketknife and hands it to her. Lucina takes it. “I’ll be out of here by evening, you know,” she says. “You don’t need to—“  
  
“Of _course_ I need to!” Teddy protests. “I mean— do you not want the bread? Because I can make you something different if I leave now. Maybe walnut bread, with that maple glaze? I know that’s always been your favorite, but it’s so sugary, you’ll spoil your dinner.”  
  
“No, Teddy, it’s not that,” Lucina promises. “But you don’t need to dote on everybody all the time. We get along fine.”  
  
Teddy knows this. “Well, it’s not that I don’t think you don’t on your own,” he admits, making Lucina’s somewhat-light head spin with how he structured his sentence. “And if you really don’t want me to make you bread and check up on you and make sure you’re eating enough and sleeping well, then I’ll stop. But are you sure? Because I will gladly make you bread— any kind you like! Because it’s good to have treats now and again, isn’t it? We aren’t all soldiers— we’re not all cut out for a utilitarian lifestyle. As long as I’m alive and it’s possible, I’ll keep making sweet breads and cookies and things. Here, you have some, too. You’re too thin.” He hands a slice of pumpkin bread to Saria, who gives it an experimental sniff and tilts her head in curiosity— as if asking _why did you hand me this and what exactly is it?_  
  
“Go on,” Teddy says to Saria. “It’s just pumpkin bread. I made it myself— and if that’s the problem, then I promise I didn’t poison it! You don’t eat enough.”  
  
“I’m not hungry,” she says. “Thank you anyway.”  
  
Teddy doesn’t like that, but he won’t force her to eat. “At least have some tea,” he tells her. “It's a little bit of something that'll help you heal faster from those scrapes. And if there’s anything you want me to make for you, just ask.”  
  
“Can you make Plegian cuisine?” Saria half-jokes. She takes one of the little teacups anyway, and holds it in her hands before taking a sip. She does that thing Lucina has noticed that girls do when they have a hot beverage— she holds it under her nose and breathes it in and scrunches up her shoulders like she’s working the warmth of it through her whole body. It’s a little thing, and Lucina wonders why she’s only noticed it just now.  
  
“Find me a recipe, and I’ll give it the old college try!” Teddy says optimistically. “Not sure how I’ll find those ingredients, but I’m sure that it’ll turn out wonderfully! After all, if I managed to make my ma’s strawberry-rhubarb pie with chokecherries and corn flour, I’m pretty sure it’ll at least be an interesting experiment, right?”  
  
Saria had said it as a joke, but in all honesty, even an imitation of a dish from home makes her hungry. She’s not sure what to think of the fact that this perfect stranger is even willing to give it his all to make her feel at home and welcomed here, but it makes her flush and clutch her teacup tighter. “I… thank you,” she murmurs. And the gesture really does mean a lot.  
  
Teddy beams. The room feels a few degrees warmer. There are times Lucina wonders how he and Cynthia can be related to _Frederick_ of all people, but then she remembers their mother from the one time she met her, and it all makes much more sense. Clearly being embodiments of sunshine runs in the family.  
  
“I’d better go prepare for dinner,” Teddy decides, standing up. “You two keep the tea, and make sure to eat up tonight! You need to get your energy back up after today’s adventure. I won’t have any of you kids keeling over from lack of nutrition.”  
  
“I will,” Lucina promises. And Teddy tucks her unruly hair out of her face and fusses with her quilt for a minute, then he decides he’s being too motherly and leaves, taking the empty basket with him. Lucina helps herself to the bread. It’s just a bit sweet and the roasted crushed seeds on top add a little bit of crunch. There’s a hint of cloves and cinnamon, and it tastes like harvest season when there are leaves all over the ground. Kjelle and Lucina used to dare each other to eat the leaves, and only stop when Brady broke it up and said they were gonna get sick or something from eating flat-out friggin’ dirt. And then Kjelle scooped up a handful of dirt from the ground and ate it just to spite him, and he’d freaked out, but it was the funniest thing at the time. Lucina remembers it fondly.  
  
Lucina looks to Saria. She’s idly swirling the tea in her teacup, feeling the tiny little weight shift as the tea moves. She takes another sip.  
  
“What’s Teddy’s color?” Lucina asks.  
  
“What?” Saria asks, as if she didn’t quite hear right, or perhaps only think she didn’t.  
  
“His color,” Lucina repeats. “You told me this morning when we left on the hunt— everybody has a color.”  
  
Saria thinks a minute. “Warmth, growing, a settling feeling in your gut that tells you you’re safe,” she says. “Fire rising when you poke it, sunshine on your limbs warming them and it feels like you’ve forgotten what sunlight feels like. A blanket around your shoulders. I think it’s brown, sort of— the smooth, even brown of a table with all its splinters sanded away, the prickling of fire in the hearth. Chestnuts. Warm sweaters.”  
  
All of that fits Teddy. “What about anyone else?” she asks. “Who else have you met? Have you met Kjelle yet, or Gerome, or Brady?” So Saria tells her and Lucina learns.  
  
Gerome is a creamy-soft beige like yarn around fingers and the soft rustling of curtains. Brady is yellow like straw warmed by afternoon sunlight. Kjelle is the rough, untamed brown of brambles and thorns. And on it goes— Sir Frederick is a once-crisp navy faded with years of use but that is no less strong, Cynthia is a many-petaled lavender like flowers sprinkling a meadow, Owain is the golden sound of wind chimes in the evening, Lissa is a sharp and cracked bottle-green pockmarked with air bubbles that is broken but no less dangerous, Maribelle is the brassy gold of doorknobs rubbed to cloudiness with countless thumbs, Nah is a satiny white that smells like faint perfumes and slightly-musty book pages, Inigo is soft mauve perfumes and embroidery thread and silk shawls woven so fine they barely rustle in the breeze. Lucina has not felt real wonder in a long time but she feels it listening to Saria talk about her colors and what they mean, and Lucina has to think about how amazing it must be to feel all of that, all the time.  
  
Lucina doesn’t need help but Saria walks with her to dinner anyway. Peanut toddles along and asks Lucina questions about the bear hunt and if it was scary, and she lapses in and out of Plegian so quickly, Lucina can barely understand a word she says. But she’s a sweet little girl and she’s just excited, so Lucina simplifies the story for her sake and she seems happy with that. (Peanut is the sun-baked orange of clay tile, warm and ever-so-slightly gritty but familiar and welcomed. Lucina wonders if Peanut is her real name, but she hasn’t asked.)  
  
They talk through dinner and they keep talking, walking, making aimless laps around the Garrison once Peanut has gone to bed, and they move from colors to stories because Lucina keeps asking questions and Saria’s voice breathes such life into the words that Lucina never wants to stop listening. She talks about her memories growing up in Plegia, about the stories she heard when she was young. Honestly, she could read Lucina’s history textbook and make it sound fascinating— and Saria _loves_ history.  
  
When it’s late and the guards are starting to yawn, Lucina walks Saria back to her room. She doesn’t want the stories to end— but she’ll see Saria again tomorrow, and then the stories can start again.  
  
“If you need anything,” Lucina says. “Like, if— if you have a bad dream or something, I’m five doors down. So, you know, if you need me—“  
  
“I’ll be alright,” Saria promises. “And if you need _me_ , if your shoulder starts acting up—“  
  
“I know where to find you,” Lucina nods. And then they say goodnight. Lucina goes to bed with stories and colors running through her head— Saria lies awake and wonders if she’s made the right choice, staying here.


	20. Daisy Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She is too young for her back and shoulders and knees to ache so badly. She wonders if she ever was young. She asks Naga and Naga is silent, and then she decides that it must've all been her lonely imagination._
> 
> _The next day, the army comes._
> 
> Sometimes no-name has meaning of its own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had this written for a while but i didn't know where to put it in. i'm releasing it along with 'gemini' bc i feel it gives meaning and reason as to why i refer to nah as daisy there and haven't before-- 'gemini' is also mostly from daisy's pov, and although i tried having her name change depending on whether it was through daisy's or lucina's eyes we were seeing the story through, that proved to be too confusing so i changed it to say daisy throughout.

_Daisy._  
  
It is _her_ name, and this is what she's decided— Manaketes _do_ traditionally name themselves, is what Marti told her. That's what Ke'tu did (his name means thunderbolt in the Chon'sin language, he will tell anyone who listens), but Marti kept hers. _All Manaketes do it differently_ , Marti tells her, secondhand from her own mother. Daisy doesn't remember hers and even if she did, she wouldn't remember what her mother called her when she was small anyway. _Nah_ is not her name because it means _no-name_ and it means that nobody cared enough to give her a name. Marti makes suggestions and it's nice of her to do but Daisy has already picked her name. (When she says this, Marti says _well let me know what it is when you want to share it,_ grinning with all her crooked fangs, and Daisy recognizes this feeling in her chest as friendship but doesn't know what to do with it. Marti will tell her friendship isn't a feeling but Daisy knows it is.)  
  
But _Daisy_ is not a name they would've said. When it was necessary to call her from wherever she was in the red house they called her _girl_ and that was it. The house was a nice shade of red but the paint was always peeling and the other children would get splinters of it in their soft little hands when they ran their grubby paws over the paint. They'd cry and say it hurt and the mother would scold them for running but pull the splinters out and bandage their tiny hands and Daisy would watch, and think to herself _perhaps when I'm done with chores she'll patch mine up, too._ Because her hands are scaly at the fingers but her palms are soft human flesh, and they blister when the broom handle rubs too roughly. They bleed when she clenches her fists, too young to be so angry and bitter, because her claws are cut short and jagged. She has no blade with which to trim them so she bites them with her sharp teeth, because otherwise they'll grow out too long and hurt. They're soft because she's still growing. She hates her claws.

She still answers to girl, sometimes, though nobody calls her that now.  
  
In the red house she learns to keep her head down and say _yes, ma'am_ and _yes, sir_ if she must speak at all, and she wonders now how she ever learned to speak at all because she knows she does not remember a mother or father encouraging her when she says a name she does not remember. She thinks that it's Naga who helps, sort of, once she learns about the idea of prayer from a visiting missionary the father turns away quickly and Naga starts saying _you are a uniquely powerful child_. She says _thank you_ for lack of anything else to say.  
  
She doesn't know if it's really Naga but she sees no reason to disbelieve it because she's five and a half and thinks she's forgotten how to speak in a voice louder than a whisper, and her world is sleepless nights scaring away predators from the rooftop held up by mountains of molding dishes and unmade beds stacked taller than she is (even if she is very small; Manaketes age slowly past infancy even if Daisy is half-human and does not quite belong to either world), stacked on top of floors that always need scrubbing and lined with brooms and scrub brushes and rags. Every task completed she thinks to herself maybe _this is what needs to be done for them to love me_ and every time she gets closer it seems the finish line is further away. Soon she is seven and small and tired and her hands hurt.  
  
When she is seven Naga tells her _complacency is not the only option_ so she puts the broom down at one in the afternoon when the other children have tracked dirt in from playing outside and it's still falling off their bare feet onto the kitchen floor. She lets it fall to the ground with a clatter and everyone turns to stare and she feels her ears flatten back against her head (because she has learned that if somebody looks at her it is because she's done something wrong and somebody will shout or hit her) and they are puzzled but before the mother can ask why she says _burn in Hell_. and in that moment she feels her hands go cold— the shutters burst open and rattle in a wind that rustles the curtains and rattles the dishes and sends jars of preserves smashing to the floor, and there is something dark and there is something primal both racing side-by-side in her veins, and she doesn't know which it is when she hears a roar and the screeching of corvids, if they're the same thing or different. But something hits her across the cheek and it all goes silent again, and someone tells her _shut your damn mouth, freak._ So she returns to her knees and cleans the preserves off the floor. She is too young for her back and shoulders and knees to ache so badly. She wonders if she ever was young. She asks Naga and Naga is silent, and then she decides that it must've all been her lonely imagination.  
  
The next day, the army comes.  
  
It's not a real army because Ylisse already _has_ a real army, but they wear the same green and have the same insignia. The name _Shepherds_ sticks in her mind when their general says to the mother _we're the shepherds and we've heard about some unusual amounts of dark magic and predator activity in your area._ Daisy watches, tiny hands (they're bruised and scabbed over in lines across the backs) around the scrub brush. Her right ear twitches and swivels because that's what it does when she picks up something interesting. The general is square-shaped and pale and he has a mop of dark blue hair, and round ears that stick out from the sides of his head. The woman next to him is taller by half a head and has hips that sway just slightly when she shifts her weight, but her skin is a darker brown than Daisy has ever seen and her hair is pale, pale like cornsilk. She doesn't like the red house— she sees Daisy staring when she looks past the mother and Daisy averts her eyes immediately and returns to scrubbing at the coffee stain on the baseboards.  
  
( _Chrom, we need that girl,_ the woman says to the general, where Daisy can't hear. _Why?_ The general has to ask. He's going to comply to what she says anyway, but he has always been taught to question if reasoning is unclear so that is what he does. And the woman looks back at the child with pointed ears and pink scales, still soft because Manakete scales do not become hard and armor-worthy until at least their fifth century, like a tiny netting pattern was pressed into her skin and it grew pink and shimmering. She looks at the tiny little girl that can't be any older than her own son safe at home in Ylisse and she looks at her scabbed hands and her bruised knees and the way her head is down and she says nothing to Chrom but looks at him and he understands.)  
  
The woman's name is Robin and she crouches to Daisy's level to speak to her, once Chrom has distracted the mother and the father and a few of the other children. She says _hey there._ She says _I know what it's like._  
  
And Daisy doesn't believe her but Robin rolls up one of her pant legs and there are scars there from something that hit too many times, too hard for her skin to take so it broke, and it didn't care so it kept going. Daisy wants to ask _did you get away_ and say _I didn't know people could do that_ but can't because her voice doesn't work so Robin doesn't know what she's saying. Robin says next _today is the last day you'll have to see this place_ and the scrub brush falls from Daisy's tiny hand with a clatter.  
  
_Once the deal is settled (and it seems like Chrom is going to pull out that greatsword on his back if he doesn't get his way) Robin sets a hand on his shoulder and says the situation's changed, we have to go._ So Chrom nods politely to the mother and says _thank you for your time, ma'am._  
  
And Robin smiles and holds her hand low for Daisy to take, and Daisy takes it. Her hand is too small to hold all of Robin's hand but Daisy manages anyway. _Burn in Hell,_ she thinks to the red house as she walks away. She does not feel an ounce of remorse.  
  
She thinks it again when she's watching the town she was never allowed to see vanish from view. Nobody is there seeing her off but she doesn't care because why should she if they didn't even notice her? Her legs are dangling off the back of the supply wagon and there is Robin walking right behind her and she says _it's a wonderful feeling, isn't it?_ And Daisy nods.  
  
She lives in the Shepherd's Garrison for a week, where people look at her strangely if she tries to do chores for them, but she does her part to help because she _can't_ just sit around and do nothing. Robin comes by and talks to her every day, and the only word Robin manages to get out of her is the closest thing she has to a name then, _Nah_. And Robin says _that's a very unique name,_ and Daisy wants to say _it's not a name at all, it's just the closest thing I have to anything I can use to make me me,_ but she can't so she doesn't.  
  
Robin takes her to the castle soon after because perhaps it'll be safer there. Daisy knows something awful is brewing on the horizon but it hasn't come yet, so she nods and holds Robin's hand when Robin takes her to meet her children.  
  
There's a girl and a boy and the boy is her age, just about. The girl is eleven and she's a lanky tomboy with short hair and a practice sword at her hip, but she grins a lopsided grin with a chipped tooth like she's happy to see Daisy even though she's never seen Daisy once before in her life. This is the girl whose hand-me-down clothing Daisy has been wearing for the past week (and it's all too big for her, fine-woven cotton tailored to a princess who grows too fast, barely-worn dresses with secret pockets at the waistlines and trousers with patched knees, but the trousers were always too long and too big in the waist so she stuck to the dresses). Her brother is shorter but still tall and he's still soft and chubby from early childhood because this is clearly a boy who had enough to eat growing up and didn't miss meals, and he says to her, _you look like a daisy._  
  
She doesn't know what that means but he says _your hair is white and your dress is yellow, so you look like a daisy. Right?_ And he is right because the dress of Lucina's she's wearing is a faded shade of buttercup-yellow that Daisy cannot see Lucina wearing at all, now that she's met Lucina.  
  
Robin introduces her as _Nah_ and says she's going to be staying with them, but the boy says _can I call you Daisy?_ And Daisy nods. She decides that is what her name will be.  
  
Marcus calls her Daisy but she has decided that nobody else will until she has a chance to announce that it's her name, and they'll do it together. She wants her name-day to be in the month of Marth because the end of Marth is always when the hazy crankiness of brumation season fades and she starts to feel like herself again, and Marcus says _okay, that's the day, then._ They do not manage to announce her name anytime before things get too complicated but Daisy kind of likes it as their secret.  
  
She joins the Justice Cabal and learns what _play_ means. Robin teaches her to read and write and she takes to it like a fish to water and reads every storybook on the shelf. In the summer they take her to the family's vacation home on Daten Lake and Chrom tries to teach her to swim, and he succeeds, and he's so happy and proud that for a moment she forgets what it's like to have been alone for so long. Lucina teaches her how to spit watermelon seeds and throw and punch like a boy. Sometmes, back at the castle, she and Marcus sneak into each others' beds and she reads stories to him after bedtime with her dragon-vision. One time the Justice Cabal follows Lucina into the forest outside the city and they all get lost and Daisy gets separated from the others, and the forest feels scary and dark to one so small. But then there is Cynthia gripping her hand and suddenly it doesn't feel so scary-- and then Lucina finds them and rounds them all up and scolds them for following her and then Robin scolds them for straying so far from the castle and then Chrom nods firmly but then starts asking about the adventure they had, and that makes up for it. During the day she takes chunks of the soft bread the cooks have sitting out in the kitchen to feed the crows in the garden with, and she sits and talks to them and she likes to think they listen. When night falls she plays with the violet magic that curls around her fingertips like a garter snake, and when she gets too tired to play she curls under the nursery blankets, her blankets, blankets that are warm and clean and soft, and thinks about the bedtime story that Chrom or Robin told them last night. There is food in her belly and a soft pillow under her head and a brother two steps away and a sister in the next room and a mother and father just down the hall, and aunts and uncles and cousins both related by blood and not because Chrom considers everyone he's fought with a part of his family because that's just the way he is, and when Daisy lets herself soak in it she forgets, for a while, what it's like to be hungry and lonely and cold.

Of course there are some that doubt-- some that question their Exalt's decision, taking in a half-Manakete orphan he and his wife found on an investigation. Daisy is an observant little girl and she cannot ignore the way some advisors, some nobles, some cabinet members look at her down their noses-- looking at her in her fine dresses that they think ought to be on a princess by birth, with her little pink scales and straight white hair and pale skin and red-violet eyes that do not match the blue curls and stick-out ears and bright blue eyes of the Grace lineage. But Marcus and Lucina consider her part of the family and one time they paint a Brand of the Exalt on the back of her right hand, over the soft pink scales that'd barely stop a papercut as she is, and it matches the one in Lucina's eye and on Owain's forearm. It's all good fun to pretend she's a real member of the family, that she was born to Chrom and Robin instead of picked up from some village house because Robin did not want another Robin in the world, but Daisy cannot forget that she's just the foster child and never will be related to them by blood.  
  
She sleeps at night in a bed that's warm and soft in the castle nursery. Lucina is in an adjoining room but Marcus is steps away in another bed, and he sprawls under the covers and snores, just a little, but Daisy doesn't mind. She keeps feeling like she should be outside in her dragon form, blasting predators and thieves with magical breath that she cannot quite control. It's the same way she feels when she gets meals, _real_ meals, with all the real food she can eat and thinks about searching for berries and non-poisonous roots and leaves when she gets a moment. She finds herself stealing bits and pieces of meals that won't burst in her pockets and sneaking them into a box she keeps under her bed. Robin catches her once and Daisy hangs her head and expects to be scolded for taking from the others but Robin just tucks a strand of hair behind her ears and says _it's alright, I still do that sometimes._ Because Robin knows what it's like to not know when she's going to eat next not because nobody cares to feed her but because she was made to feel like she'd impose by asking somebody to keep dinner warm for her while her father made her train through headaches and bloody noses. Daisy has never thought about how nice it is to have somebody that understands, really understands.  
  
Robin knew Daisy's parents. Separately— Daisy's birth mother had been part of the Shepherds at one point in time before she died (Nowi had died young, for a Manakte, and Daisy had not been old enough to remember), and her birth father was a friend of Robin's brother, or perhaps her sister, or both. Robin hadn't known him well because she was always too busy to bother knowing her siblings' friends, and she was certain he was one of those kids that her brother befriended when he was out and about and brought home for lunch once, never to see again. She remembers his name was Henry because of how unusual it was to hear in Plegia but that's about it. She didn't know they'd ever met, that they'd ever had a child, because Nowi had seemingly dropped off the face of the planet once Gangrel was defeated and they hadn't kept in touch. _I'm sorry, I don't know what she named you,_ Robin says to Daisy when they're reading together and Daisy asked. Daisy says _it's alright_ and she doesn't know what she expected. She supposes her name died with her parents.  
  
She's seven and a half when Chrom and Robin (she cannot make herself call them father and mother and doesn't know if she ever will, but they don't mind) take the Shepherds and go off to war. Lucina wants to go with them but she's still only eleven and can't lift Falchion yet. Chrom makes a promise to all three of them (and he does say _you too, Nah_ ) that he'll be back before they've grown another inch. Nah tells him very seriously that she doesn't grow that fast because she's half-Manakete and she's still the size of a five-year-old, and he laughs and says then _it's doubly true for you, isn't it?_ She can tell he doesn't quite know what to say to her but that's alright. And Robin promises, too, and Lucina isn't satisfied but she doesn't want to make a scene so she salutes to her father and promises she'll hold down the fort while he's gone. And Chrom laughs, and claps her on the shoulder, and she grins. It is a nice goodbye but Daisy cannot make herself smile even though Chrom and Robin are doing their very best to promise, as many times as their children need, that they'll come back.  
  
They won't come back, something in Daisy's head says. It's not her own usual paranoia that says nobody will love her or that she isn't doing enough or that she doesn't deserve to be loved, no. It's knowledge, it's real and there and she knows, somewhere, that this is the last time she will really, truly see Chrom and Robin as they are. She wants to hug them as their children do and say thank you for all you've done for me and have them say you can thank us later, because we'll be back, but she knows they won't. But she doesn't, and just watches them mournfully, silently, when the Shepherds march out. She'll miss them.  
  
It storms that night as if the weather hears Daisy's dread, and lightning wakes her up in the middle of the night. Thunder crashes and the wind roars, and for a moment she's paralyzed thinking that she's done something bad and the loud noises are people shouting, screaming, but Marcus takes her hand and tugs on it and says Luci's room. So they walk hand-in-hand to Lucina's room and crawl under the covers and Lucina doesn't ask them to get out even if she's getting to that age where children think they're too old to be children and do things like share beds or hold hands or play with toys. Daisy feels warm in her core with Lucina and Marcus close and sleeping and safe, but she can't help but grip the top quilt and think that somehow it was her fault. She doesn't sleep that night until the storm is over and the sun is poking its head over the horizon. They let her sleep in the next day, saying she's sick. She feels sick. She doesn't know if she'll ever feel well again.  
  
Winter passes and it snows but no more than it would any other year, and she sleeps through winter because Manaketes always get lethargic and sluggish when it's cold, but she wakes in Mia and celebrates her eighth birthday, her first in the castle. Lucina gives her a set of tin soldiers (to eat; she's not going to play with them and Lucina has another set anyway so it's not a big deal) and Marcus makes her a crown of flowers that she wears and makes her feel just like a princess. That is a good day.  
  
Lucina turns twelve the next month and Daisy gets her a book of lesser-known Ylissean legends that she saw in the marketplace but it's then Lucina starts to take herself more seriously and stop thinking of herself as a child. She gets it in her head that there's a massive injustice obscuring her parents' safe return and she confesses, later, to Marcus and Daisy that she got a vision from her Branded eye that mother has killed father but it hasn't happened quite yet. Marcus doesn't want to believe it and neither does Lucina, but Lucina's visions have never been wrong before. Marcus turns eight in Mia and Daisy can feel the air in the castle getting tenser, more dangerous. She gets him a chess set where the pieces are all different kinds of dragons.  
  
Lissa leads the Shepherds home in the month of Juno. She returns to the castle with Falchion at her side and she gathers up the children and says that Chrom fell in battle. Lucina and Marcus are facing her and Daisy is standing behind a column to the side (because she knows that Chrom wasn't really her father even if he did teach her to swim and said he was proud of her when she did it right did his best to make her feel welcomed and loved and didn't bat an eye when she flinched at being touched and wouldn't look him in the eye, and that he'd made a point crouch to talk to her and approach her where she could see and to ask her if she was alright and if it was okay if he held her hand here because he didn't want her to get lost in the crowd, and even if she feels herself get teary when it sinks in that he's dead and none of that will ever happen again.). But Daisy is _there_ and she sinks to the floor, back to the column, and buries her face in her hands and lets her chest shake. She cries silently so she won't disturb anybody. She fears— if Chrom is dead and if Robin is missing, does that mean they'll have to send her back to the red house?  
  
Lucina storms off in an angry huff, because she's twelve and everything makes you angry when you're twelve, clutching Falchion like a lifeline. Marcus cries and Owain sulks and Lissa holds them both, and Daisy feels something heavy on her chest she didn't think she'd ever feel.  
  
(She'll wish but she won't let Lissa hold her, even if she knows Lissa would be alright with it because Lissa is kind and loves Daisy just as much as she loves Lucina and Marcus and Owain. The fear that she'll say _no_ and scold her for even _daring_ to ask, for _daring_ to think herself on equal footing as the blood children of the Grace bloodline, is too great for Daisy to try. So she cries alone, clutching her pillow hard enough that her claws tear into the case and let the feathers fall out, and her tears dot the soft cotton but she doesn't care. She'll take the pillow to the seamstresses in the morning with her head down and say _I'm sorry for tearing it,_ and they'll fix it and tell her it's alright but she ought to be more careful.)  
  
Robin reappears later that day but she feels different, and Lucina glares at her like she knows she was right but the argument happens away from Daisy's ears. Robin looks at Daisy and at Marcus with sorrow, like something big has happened that she can't tell them about. Daisy thinks it's because Chrom is dead, but her gut tells her that isn't it and her gut is rarely wrong. Still, she gets the feeling that she will not see Robin again after a point that is very soon in coming.  
  
Robin gives her a signet ring on a little green cord. It's silver and it has the House Grace coat of arms stamped into it, and it's slightly worn. It's the same ring that she's always worn around her index finger, that Chrom gave to her when their relationship started getting serious, because Chrom was just the type of person to do that. It's nicked in a few places and it's heavy in Daisy's little palm. _I want you to have it,_ Robin tells her, gently curling Daisy's little fingers around the ring. _Keep it with you, and know you'll always be a part of the family._ So Daisy puts the cord around her neck and feels the tiny weight on her chest, and she's still a bit young to know the weight of the gesture but it makes her feel better to know that maybe she _is_ part of the family. She isn't sure what family is supposed to feel like, but it feels good.  
  
It's that day that the Mark of the Grimleal shows itself in Marcus's right eye. He's lived his life unmarked until then, and the assumption was that he'd never show it, like Lissa hadn't shown a Brand. But there it was, plain as day. He disappears from the rest of the Justice Cabal for two days until they corner him by the message tree. He and Daisy try to touch and it hurts, and Daisy wants to say _it doesn't matter if I hurt so long as we can still be friends,_ but she doesn't because Marcus is already gone. She feels tears run down her cheeks and Cynthia and Owain try to make it better but in the end it doesn't end up working and she goes to bed early because she feels sick at what's been happening. She knew she wasn't going to feel well for a long, long time.  
  
They write. She and Marcus have written letters before— she thinks fondly of a time when they’d write each other silly things in letters sealed with a little bit of glue and give them to the postmaster to mail, eagerly awaiting the quick delivery the next day. Marcus’s were always written in his favorite green ink, his big, scratchy handwriting accompanied by little doodles of griffons and dragons and flowers. Daisy wasn’t as much of an artist and her penmanship was, then, the shaky and uncertain form of one who had only recently learned how to write, but she wrote in pink and it was nice, the games they played. This isn’t _quite_ the same because there is real distance between them greater than the difference between two beds in Castle Ylisse’s nursery, but it’s familiar enough to be comforting.  
  
One day she gets a letter that says he’s coming to visit. It will be the last one he writes.


	21. Gemini

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So it was her!” Lucina demands. She presses her fist harder onto Marcus’s sternum. “Is this her next move? Was murdering father not enough?”_
> 
> _“That’s our mother you’re talking about!” Marcus fires back. “Do you really think she’d kill anyone in cold blood?”_
> 
> _“She was a soldier,” Lucina says coldly. “Soldiers kill, Marcus.”_
> 
> Although bonds of family are often strong, they can be, in one instant, both severed and strengthened.

_Daisy,_  
  
_I said I’d see you again. Finally got time. Boss is demanding, but I convinced him. Had to haggle. No matter._  
  
_I’m coming tonight. It’ll be late. You’ll know when I arrive. Barn. Please don’t scream. Explain when I get there._  
  
_Miss you._  
  
_Marcus_  


* * *

  
  
Lucina brings the letter after lunch the next day. She won’t say she’s not curious as to its contents, but it’s rude to read other people’s mail. Daisy is in the common area in front of the fireplace, wrapped up in several quilts and reading something called _Everfates: The Bladewalker Saga._ There’s a faded image of two people with wolf ears, one much more muscular than the other, embracing before a full moon. They are both crying, and for no apparent reason they are both shirtless. The muscular one is staring broodily into the distance, a single manly tear glittering in his eye, while the smaller one is weeping openly into his partner’s pillowy man-bosom. Lucina has never put much stock in romance novels as a general rule, but this one looks especially ridiculous. She supposes she’ll never understand the appeal.  
  
“You’ve gotten a lot of letters like that,” Lucina notices as Daisy holds the letter in her tiny, scaly hands. “I didn’t know you had a pen pal.”  
  
Daisy is quiet. The letter is on Plegia-made paper, with the yellower coloring and finer grain of paper made from desert trees instead of the rougher, slightly-warped pages pressed in Ylisse. She could say something like _there’s a lot you don’t know about me,_ except it’s not true. Lucina knows about the nasty reality that was the first six and a half years of Nah’s short life, and anything else isn’t terribly important. Nah has always been quiet but she does talk to Lucina— something about her, perhaps learned or perhaps inherent, exudes safety and acceptance, and Nah doesn’t know how sisters work but she’s pretty sure that if you don’t talk to the girl that taught you how to hold a weapon, throw a punch, and spit watermelon seeds, you’re doing something wrong.  
  
“Of a sort,” Daisy admits. “It’s…” she hesitates. She closes a hand around her signet ring necklace, thumb rubbing the stamp.  
  
Lucina leans her sword against the wall and sits next to her on the couch, tucking her gloves into her pocket. “Is it secrets time?” she asks, with a hint of teasing in her voice.  
  
Daisy rolls her eyes. “I’m not seven anymore, Lucina,” she chides. “You don’t have to do that.”  
  
“Because ten is _so_ much more mature,” Lucina replies.  
  
“I’m _very_ mature,” Daisy protests. But she puts a bookmark in _Everfates_ and sets the book aside, giving her full attention to the letter.  
  
Lucina supposes she is— she’ll admit defeat on this front. But Daisy squirms a little, tugging her quilt further around her shoulders. It’s big and warm and it has another thick blanket between the layers, and it’s big enough that Daisy can wrap herself up in it during brumation season and be warm, but light enough that even she can carry it around when being inside the Manakete Nest gets too stuffy and unbearable.  
  
“Promise not to tell anybody,” Daisy says. She clutches her ring tighter. “And—“ she hesitates. “And you have to promise you won’t yell o-or anything. I’m sorry for keeping it secret this long but you’d freak out, a-and the letters said to keep it a secret, so…”  
  
“I promise I won’t yell or tell anybody,” Lucina promises. She frowns. Somehow this seems more serious than just a pen pal.  
  
Daisy takes a breath. “Alright,” she says, more to herself than to Lucina. “It’s… Marcus. We’ve been writing letters. He’s okay, in a manner of speaking, but… well, he says to keep the fact that he’s alive a secret, because he says you wouldn’t want to hear about it anyway.”  
  
“Wait, Nah—“ That hits Lucina like a runaway wheelbarrow. “I thought Marcus left with mo— with Robin.”  
  
“He did,” Daisy says. “Or _something_ , anyway. He hasn’t told me where he is exactly. He keeps writing about a boss, or something. I don’t know.”  
  
She’s avoiding the issue. She does that.  
  
Lucina clenches her fists. “So they _lied?”_ she demands. Daisy shrinks and Lucina plows onwards. “Robin let us think that they were dead when really they were— were— were doing _fuck-knows-what_ off in Plegia or wherever? What’s she planning?”  
  
“I don’t know, it doesn’t—“ Daisy protests, hands closed around her ring. Lucina fumes, folding her arms. She makes herself take a breath so she doesn’t shout.  
  
“What else does it say?” Lucina asks tersely.  
  
Daisy lowers her head, grip loosening. “He’s asking me to meet him late tonight in the barn,” she mumbles. “And to not scream.”  
  
“I’m coming with you,” Lucina decides.  
  
“Wouldn’t it be better if I went alone and called if I needed backup?” Daisy frowns. “He might— I don’t know— I don’t think it’s a kidnapping or anything, but maybe I should go alone.”  
  
Lucina shakes her head. “I normally trust your ability to handle yourself, Nah, but I’m not letting you just blindly follow the mysterious instructions of a letter you just got from the not-so-late _Marcus_ of all people. No, I’m coming too, and I’m bringing Falchion, and if I need to I’m going to throttle him. Or stab him. Whichever is faster.”  
  
Daisy almost protests, but doesn’t. “Alright,” she says warily. “Is this— should this be a secret?”  
  
And that gives Lucina a moment’s pause. “For now,” she decides. “And if worse comes to worse, you run for help and I’ll hold them off. Alright?”  
  
“Alright,” Daisy decides. And for the moment, that is that.  
  
Daisy had forgotten how cold it could get at night, even behind the Garrison’s protective walls. So even though she’s bundled in Lucina’s thick coat and her warmest stockings and boots and everything, she shivers.  
  
Lucina wraps a scarf made of thick red wool around her neck and over her ears. Lucina's hands shiver involuntarily in the chill but otherwise she seems unaffected— like she’s transcended beyond temperature and environment and exists on a level above the mortal plane. But that’s silly and otherwise bullshit, Daisy knows, because Lucina is just as much a person as anybody else. She just happens to be magnificently stubborn.  
  
“You forgot your gloves again,” Daisy whispers, breath steaming in the cold. They’ve brought a little oil lantern that’s small enough the guards won’t notice it. Lucina curls her bandaged hands in the cuffs of her quilted jacket. It lights up the fog of her breath.  
  
“I didn’t have time,” she lies, and Daisy knows it’s a lie. Knowing this and how futile lying is, Lucina grins sheepishly and shrugs.  
  
Daisy scowls. “You’re going to freeze your fingers off,” she says, matter-of-fact. “And unlike mine, they won’t grow back.”  
  
“You don’t even know that for sure,” Lucina replies.  
  
“Marti said so, so there,” Daisy tells her, tiny mittened hands on her hips. Because Marti knows everything there is to know about Manaketes, right? Of course, Marti _also_ says that Manaketes can eat twelve times their weight in steak, and Daisy doesn’t know how much she believes that. Still, she’s _pretty_ sure that Marti was right saying Manakete body parts regenerate when severed. Lucina decides that she needs to have a discussion with Marti on the subject of telling her impressionable sister false facts.  
  
Lucina rolls her eyes, but Daisy cannot be told otherwise. As far as she’s concerned, Marti knows _absolutely_ everything there is to know about being a Manakete, even though Marti is only Lucina’s age as far as human years are concerned and even though to other Manaketes she and Daisy might as well be twins.  
  
Suddenly something lights the barn up in purple— it passes overhead from the west, casting light through the windows set high in the walls of the barn. Daisy’s eyes widen, slitted pupils narrowing in response to the sudden onslaught of light. It fades. There’s silence. Lucina draws Falchion from the sheath on her back and puts herself between Daisy and the two sets of footsteps coming from behind the barn door.  
  
“I can handle _myself_ ,” Daisy whispers indignantly. She says she’s not scared but the way she’s clinging to her signet ring says otherwise.  
  
“I know,” Lucina replies. “And I know that’s probably Marcus, because who else would arrive in a flash of purple light— besides Owain, I mean, but you know Owain, he’s dead asleep by now— and more than likely nobody will need to get hurt tonight. But there’s a possibility that someone will need to get hurt, and if that’s the case, I don’t want it to be you.”  
  
Daisy rolls her eyes, but it’s sound logic, and one of the many things Robin taught her was that sound logic cannot be ignored unless you’re willfully ignorant or otherwise incredibly stupid— both things that Robin disapproved of.  
  
There’s frustrated mumbling outside the door before somebody yanks it open. Then two sets of little hands tug it again, and then there’s an elbow, then a knee, and then an unfamiliar girl that’s Daisy’s age but much taller shoves open the door with her shoulder. In the limited light, Daisy can guess at Plegian features matching the woody brown of her skin, and she can see a mop of dark, coarse hair. She seems the type to be perpetually scowling, like someone had told her that if she made a face like that it’d get stuck, and she’d done it out of spite and it really had. Daisy can see the wrinkle in her brow even more clearly when she sneers, as if the whole setup here is unimpressive and beneath her. She says something in Plegian and Marcus pokes his head through the door before hurrying inside and taking his companion with him, the heavy door making a clunk behind her.  
  
And _gods, it’s him,_ is the first thing she thinks. He’s grown taller and thinner but he always was tall, and his cobalt baby curls have thickened and calmed to messy waves that brush his ears and dangle in his eyes. He’s in Plegia-made clothing, all flax and linen, and there’s a new tome in the worn leather satchel at his side. He grins at Daisy and suddenly it looks like he hasn’t aged a day.  
  
“Hey,” he says.  
  
There was a moment before this where Daisy wondered how exactly to greet Marcus— she wasn’t sure how she would be feeling, was the thing. Would she burst into tears and demand to know why he left without saying goodbye in person? Would she fly into a rage and punch him in the face? Would she be too bitter to speak to him? Would she be too happy he was alive to even think about talking and hug him instead? It wasn’t like this happened often, after all.  
  
But here the moment was, and Marcus was alive and smiling with the faint little freckles on his cheeks and his one missing canine that he had to get pulled because it broke when he ran into a bookshelf in the library, less round and innocent-looking than he had been at eight but still young. What does she say?  
  
“Hey,” she replies. What to say next, she hasn’t any idea.  
  
Turns out, she doesn’t have to. Lucina runs up and crushes him in a hug, leaving Falchion to fall to the ground with a dusty fwap. Then she pulls away and he looks like he’s about to say something, until she shoves him to the ground and pulls a knife from her belt.  
  
“You have a _gravestone_ ,” she grinds out. “We thought you were dead— or worse, a traitor!”  
  
“Wow, priorities,” Marcus commented. “You’d rather have me dead than fighting for someone besides _O Holy Ylisse_. Real telling.”  
  
“Don’t be smart with me,” Lucina demands. “Why have you returned? Is this another one of Robin’s tricks?”  
  
Marcus blinks, first in surprise, and then his face droops in sadness and shock. “Luci—“  
  
“ _Don’t_ call me that,” Lucina snarls. She grabs him by the collar and yanks him to his feet, slamming him into a support post. “You lost that right when you left.”  
  
Marcus sighs. “Look, I know you probably have questions. But mother said—“  
  
“So it was her!” Lucina demands. She presses her fist harder onto Marcus’s sternum. “Is this her next move? Was murdering father not enough?”  
  
“That’s our _mother_ you’re talking about!” Marcus fires back. “Do you _really_ think she’d kill anyone in cold blood?”  
  
“She was a soldier,” Lucina says coldly. “Soldiers kill, Marcus.”  
  
He breathes through his nose, fixing her with an even stare. “I should’ve expected this,” he says. “You’ve changed, Luci.”  
  
She doesn’t reply to that. There are angry tears welling up in her eyes— _it’s not fair, this should be easy,_ she thinks. It should be simple anger like the anger she uses to fight. It shouldn’t sting, shouldn’t pulse with the beat of her heart like fire through her veins even though she knows there’s not a drop of magic blood in her; it should be quick and simple to make herself hurt Marcus like he hurt her, but that would involve acknowledging that she wasn’t simply angry because he was the enemy. There was betrayal and the stinging knowledge that she called him a brother once, and to some extent still does. She has tasted betrayal only once before and it was not enough to quash the hope that _they’re still family, I still love them, maybe we can forgive each other and go back to the way it was._ This is hammering a nail into that hope and making it bleed, making it sting, making her curse herself for even thinking it.  
  
Daisy finds her voice. “Let him go,” she chokes out. “Lucina— Lucina, you don’t have to hurt him!”  
  
Lucina grits her teeth. She shoves Marcus off the post, putting her knife back in its sheath. He lands on the dusty floor of the barn, then stands and brushes himself off.  
  
“Jeez, I forgot how _aggressive_ you can be,” Marcus sighs, folding his arms over his chest. “You never smacked me around like that before.”  
  
“You weren’t a _traitor_ before,” Lucina replies. Daisy reaches out and puts a hand on her arm. Lucina glares, but retreats. She’s still standing protectively in front of Daisy, like she’s going to throttle anything that tries to hurt her.  
  
Marcus frowns, like he’s going to argue, but shrugs. His companion grunts and says something to him in Plegian, not bothering to hide the disdain with which she glances at Lucina and Daisy. He replies in slightly-clunkier Plegian, and she scoffs— a universal noise. She’s in faded riding leathers and a dented iron hauberk and breastplate that look to be a bit big for her frame, and there’s an iron axe at her hip. She rubs the end of the handle idly, clearly unhappy with this.  
  
“Where are my manners?” Marcus says, spreading his hands and grinning like he’s introducing his guests at a fancy dinner party, “Anya, meet my sisters, Lucina and Nah. Sisters, meet our cousin Anya.”  
  
Anya grunts. “More half-breeds,” she says in heavily-accented Common. “Is this supposed to matter to me?”  
  
“Just say hello, like a person,” Marcus tells her. Anya rolls and gives Lucina and Daisy a fake smile that could easily be mistaken for a snarl.  
  
“Some family reunion,” Anya grumbles. “ _Noy_. I’ll be waiting with Ravi.” With that she turns and leaves the barn. Marcus wrings his hands. As far as Lucina knows, he’s never done that. When did he pick up that habit?  
  
“Sorry about that,” Marcus apologizes. “Anya’s not a people person. Or an anything person, really. I’m not actually sure she has feelings. But when all’s said and done, she’s a great bodyguard.”  
  
“She’s related to us?” Lucina says skeptically.  
  
“On mom’s side,” Marcus explains. “Yeah, mom had a twin brother. He was a real jerk, I’ll tell you what. Nasty all around. Not worse than our grandfather though— oh, man, I know I shouldn’t be, but I’m glad _he_ got his comeuppance.”  
  
Marcus has stopped sounding familiar. Now he sounds like he thinks this whole thing is hilarious— like it’s a big joke, making everyone think he was dead whilst joining the people intent on burning the world to the ground. He laughs but it sounds more like a half-mad cackle than the happy laugh Daisy knows. Her mouth feels dry.  
  
“Your letter,” Daisy manages. “What did you want to explain?”  
  
Marcus rubs at the tangled hair on the back of his head. “Well, truthfully, I’d expected you to come alone,” he admits. “And— _great shit_ , I’d forgotten how _frigid_ it was in Ylisse. But considering Lucina doesn’t seem to want to hear my explanations, I’ll just explain it to you.”  
  
Lucina makes a growling noise in the back of her throat. Daisy hadn’t realized human vocal cords could make those sounds. She puts a hand on Falchion’s hilt but Daisy takes her arm again, holding her back. Lucina glares, but quiets.  
  
Marcus snorts. “Like a dog on a leash,” he says snidely. “Anyway— Daisy.”  
  
“Daisy?” Lucina questions, looking down to her.  
  
Daisy ducks her head. “I’ll explain later,” she mumbles.  
  
“Listen, it’s—“ Marcus sighs. “I thought it was the right thing to do, leaving. Mother said it was for the best. It’s because of the Mark in my eye. Grima chose me, but you’ve got— I don’t know, mystical Naga whammy or something— so if I stay I’ll hurt you. I’ll hurt everyone here. Everyone is better off if I’m elsewhere.”  
  
Lucina says nothing. Daisy breathes. “I get that now,” she says. “That you left because you wanted to protect us. But what are you now? Who are you loyal to?”  
  
Marcus shrugs. “Whatever I need to be to get the job done,” he says. “The world’s going to shit. Who’s gonna waste time on being loyal to anything but themselves?”  
  
On some level, Daisy can’t believe what she’s hearing. “So do you really care about us, then? You’re either in it for yourself or you’re in it to protect people. You’ve said both, but they can’t both be true. Which is it?”  
  
“I don’t—“ Marcus sighs in frustration. “Look, maybe I’m not being a perfect little princeling like _Fido_ here—“  
  
“ _Fido?_ ” Lucina demands.  
  
“— But that doesn’t mean I’m going to hurt you!” Marcus finishes. “Gods, that’s the _opposite_ of what I want to do. What I really want to do is save the world and make it all okay again, but that’s about as likely as lizards with wings, so I’m going for second best.”  
  
He’s too young to sound so bitter. Trauma has no age restrictions. Still, it isn’t fair.  
  
Daisy eyes him carefully. “You’re _really_ on our side?” she asks.  
  
“I’m not against you,” Marcus says. “So— yeah, I’m on your side, if you’re doing it like that. Real nice black and white morality you have there. Soon enough you’ll realize there’s no difference.”  
  
“Funny, because,” Daisy swallows— she’s not good with confrontation. “Because I don’t actually believe you, um, at all. You made all your letters sound nice like you were doing your best to help but I don’t think that’s what it’s about anymore, I think that’s how it started but now you’re in it for yourself.”  
  
“Who’s not in it for themselves?” Marcus tries to say. “And who’s to say you can’t be part of that?”  
  
“If you’re in it for yourself then you can’t be trying to protect anyone else, Marcus, that’s how it works!” Daisy retorts.  
  
Marcus blinks. He bites his lip and swallows. “Fine,” he spits. “Whatever. Burn in Hell for all I care, then. I tried to explain but I _guess_ you’re all too busy sniffing each other’s buttholes to listen.”  
  
He turns and storms out. He pretends he doesn’t see Daisy’s face crumpling like paper crushed in a fist, pretends he doesn’t see her clutch Lucina’s jacket like a lifeline and he doesn’t see Lucina glaring at him and silently rewriting her list of who she can trust.  
  
Anya is outside, leaning on her wyvern and pawing through a bag full of stolen shiny-but-otherwise-worthless things like teaspoons, buckles, buttons, and clasps. “Some family _you_ have,” she comments.  
  
“Yeah,” Marcus mumbles, rubbing the sting from his eyes. “Let’s go.”  
  
“Your sister, the older one, she's pretty, though,” Anya continues, hopping up onto Ravi and taking the reins. “She looks like your mom.”  
  
“Shut up,” Marcus tells her, getting on behind her. “Don’t be weird.”

Anya shrugs. “I wonder where the family resemblance got lost?”  
  
Marcus slugs her in the shoulder. “Let’s just get back to Plegia,” he says. “Boss won’t wait.”  
  
So they take off into the night, and leave the Garrison behind. The next morning, Lissa demands to know what thief snuck in in the night and stole a bunch of doorknobs.


	22. Laurent's Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I know how to fix the world,” he announces. Where had been companionable quiet now is complete stunned silence. Laurent tugs at his lopsided collar, face flushing. He clears his throat._
> 
> Things are normal, and then not anymore.

It rains the next day, and the next, and the next after that. It’s freezing rain that coats the Garrison in ice and it vexes Lissa because the ice wasn’t supposed to start until December, at least, and it’s not even then. But it’ll be a long, cold winter this year and Lissa is glad that she had the foresight to start storing up food in the summer months. The bear that Lucina hunted will feed everyone for a good long time, and with the rest of the haul, they’ll be set on meat for the winter. It’s so bitterly cold that Lissa makes the ever-vigilant mail boys get inside for a hot beverage before sending them off with more packages— and so cold they both accept with very little discussion. It’s so cold that nobody even bothers training outside, so cold that guards draw straws to see who’s unfortunate enough to get outside patrol, so cold that everyone walks in huddles to meals through the exterior corridors, and so cold that all three Manaketes have taken over the couch in front of the fireplace in the smaller common room and have stayed there for the past few days, squished up together like cats and wrapped in quilts moved from their room. Nobody can blame them. The winter is hard enough on those with warm blood.  
  
Inigo tries to gamble on cards with Severa— who thinks the entire idea is stupid and would really rather he stop bothering her so she can get back to drawing. But Inigo is hard to ignore.  
  
Brady puts down a two of clubs. Noire shuffles through her hand, blows her nose into a worn-out handkerchief, and then puts down a four of hearts. Brady smirks. “Sorry, darlin’, but I take this round,” he says proudly, putting his two of clubs on top of her card and taking them both. Noire sneezes.  
  
“A _thrilling_ play!” Inigo announces, slamming his hands on the rug. “Severa, I wager one of Teddy’s mincemeat pies and half an apple that Noire has an _amazing_ strategy under her belt!”  
  
Severa scoffs, pencil paused in the air above her page. She’s drawing a gallant-looking knight with a House Grace shield and cuirass, holding a sword in the air. It’s pretty good— the knight is quite boxy and indistinct, and his hands are conveniently not shown in any level of detail, but most of the boxes are in the right place and that’s more than a lot of twelve-year-olds can say. She glares at him. “I refuse to take part in your inane attempt at gambling, Twinkle-toes.”  
  
“Um, Brady,” Noire whispers over her hand. “I, um, don’t know how to play.”  
  
Brady looks up in surprise. He blinks, scratches his head, then looks at his pile of captured cards. “Huh,” he says. “No _wonder_ I’m winnin’, then.”  
  
Inigo groans, quite dramatically. He flings his arms out, scattering the card game in the process, and flops back onto the rug. “Severa,” he whines. “This is _boring_. Aren’t you bored?”  
  
Severa snorts, adding plume to the knight’s helmet. “Ugh, you _know_ I am. You know how much I’d rather be pinching snacks from the kitchens? At least then I’d be _outside_ , and not cooped up in here. But you know her Grace.” She sniffs and tosses her carrot-colored hair, shoulder-length tails swishing beside her ear. The ribbons bounce as if sensing her attitude and punctuating her sentence. They’re pink today— light pink cotton that people swaddle babies in during the summer. It’s pretty, girly, superfluous, and completely unlike Severa.  
  
“I hate ice,” Inigo gripes.  
  
“Better yer cooped up than outside freezin’ yer nuts off,” Brady quips— he sounds just like his mother when he does that, despite the accent. “Ever seen frostbitten nuts before? Ain’t pretty.”  
  
Severa makes an exaggerated retching noise. “Geez, thanks for _that_ mental image. Yeah, whatever, I’m glad miss Owain’s mom cares enough to keep everybody inside while temperatures plummet lower than Teddy’s self-esteem and all our demihuman friends get to sleep it off. But where’s that leave the rest of us? Ugh.” She sneers, almost at herself. “Never thought I’d be jealous of _Fluffy_ before, but I’m not the one who gets to sleep until spring and not have to deal with all this white bullshit. It’s like the Exalted Council is back with their heads shoved further up their asses than ever before.”  
  
Inigo snorts. “Still,” he says. “Don’t you think we ought to— I don’t know— _do_ something?”  
  
“ _Last_ time y’all did something, you ended up in stitches— literally,” Brady points out. “Fourteen each!” Noire winces in sympathy.  
  
Severa rolls her eyes. She sets her sketchpad down. “I’m gonna talk to Lucina,” she decides. “Think she’s still in the ring?”  
  
“With Gerome, I think,” Inigo recalls. “Last I heard, they were fighting over who had to change Minerva’s heating packs.”  
  
“Laurent just did that,” Noire brings up. “I, um, saw him muttering about h-how to make them more efficient. A-and a way to not become a wyvern’s dinner. That was part of it.”  
  
“Nobody’s told _them_ that,” Inigo shrugs. “Whatever. Say, Sev—“  
  
Severa, who had gotten to the doorway by then, rolls her eyes and plants her hands on her hips. “What? You wanna bother me at the ring, too?”  
  
“I would never _dream_ of accosting a lady like that,” he insists, standing and jogging over to her side. She puts a hand out to stop him before he gets a step too close. “Even if— well, far be it from me to decide what a lady is and isn’t— you’re _Severa_.”  
  
Severa tosses her hair. “I’m the ladiest lady you’ll _ever_ meet, mister,” she says, poking him in the chest. “Get used to it. Now are you walking me to the ring or not?”  
  
He is. He also thinks himself enough of a gentleman that he holds the door to the indoor practice ring open for Severa to walk through— four and a half feet of kleptomania, abandonment issues, and attitude all wrapped up in a freckly twelve-year-old package and tied with pink hair ribbons, marching in like a cat that thinks she owns the place. Lucina and Gerome are no longer fighting, if they even were fighting, but there’s Lucina on one of the benches opposite the door with a canteen of water and her shirt draped over the bench, chatting with Saria without a care in the world.  
  
Even with her shoulder bandaged from the bear hunt, Lucina’s a sight. She has her hair pulled back with twine, because even if it’s only to her shoulders it’s long enough to get in the way when she trains. Falchion is propped up in its sheath next to her, next to her clothes like it’s part of her daywear now. She’s in her training clothes— the leather trousers buttoned up under the knee, the well-fitting sleeveless shirt that she never even wears while fighting so there’s really no point except for everyone else’s comfort. Come to think of it, why _is_ she even wearing that shirt? She and Saria are the only people there and Saria wouldn’t even be able to see anything.  
  
Whatever, it’s silly anyway, Severa thinks. Maybe she just forgot. Yes, that happened from time to time— Lucina forgot things sometimes, like the way jokes work and such. It wasn’t like she even cared what Severa thought of whether she was wearing a stupid shirt or not. Though it was still curious— did she _really_ care that much to wear a shirt around Saria, who would probably care the least of anyone in the Garrison? Did it matter to her what Saria thought _that_ much? Maybe Lucina is taking _her_ advice now, on other things. Saria had been on the bear hunt, too, after all, and Saria had been the one to patch her up. Maybe they’re discussing how to keep her training regime while recovering from her injury. Lucina would _definitely_ care about other people’s opinions on that, especially the girl who saved her life.  
  
Did she care about Saria _more_ , though? Was Saria going to become Lucina’s confidante where Severa had been? It was Severa that Lucina told about her vision of her father’s death, after all, and Severa who she trusted to tell her worries. She told Kjelle and Gerome and Laurent things, of course, but all of them were about as good with feelings as drunken pigeons. Lucina told Severa about things that didn’t have an immediate solution, like when she worried she’d never be as good as her father once was or when Marcus and Robin had first left the Garrison and Lucina was worried she’d lose her whole family, one member at a time. It was good, that— listening to her. Helping her process things in a way better than fighting it. Through that, Severa had found somebody she could trust in turn— not that Severa had problems worth bringing up that weren’t just part of her personality at this point.  
  
The irony was not lost— Severa knew their roots, their families. She knew very little about when her mother had gone off to war because she’d been five and a half and thought that the worst thing she could do was steal a few coins from an obnoxious classmate’s silly ribbon purse, but she knew that she’d gone to fight for a man that had stood in front of the people in the city and promised they’d end the war quickly and bring everybody home. He’d said _I will go and I will come back with your husbands and wives, your brothers and sisters, your daughters and sons, your mothers and fathers, your cousins, your neighbors, your friends; I will go and lead them to victory and I will do what is right by you and by Ylisse, as did my sister before me._ He’d said that and a year later Severa had watched through the upstairs window as a soldier in green and shining silver knocked on the door and handed him Cordelia’s lance with her blood still crusting on the blade and a box of her affects. Lucina was the daughter of the man that had let Severa’s mother die and the man that Severa swore she’d never forgive, and yet. Here she is, silently pledging to devote her life to another _stupid_ lord with blue hair and the blood of heroes and gods in their veins.  
  
_Stupid Lucina_. Severa folds her arms and grips her forearms a little tighter. Stupid Lucina and her stupid handsome face and that stupid easy grace she carries herself with; stupid caring about Severa and her stupid inability to form casual relationships with anybody that tells her she matters. She scowls.  
  
Inigo raises his eyebrows, leaning on the wall next to her. “This is the first time I’ve seen our new friend without her child,” he remarks, nodding to Saria. “She’s quite lovely.”  
  
Severa snorts. “Yeah, like you have a chance.”  
  
“A miracle could happen,” he points out. “You never know. Maybe she _likes_ younger men.” He licks his thumb and traces it along his eyebrow, then wiggles them at Severa. She gags, pointing down her throat with her thumb. He grins, like it’s a badge of pride, and saunters across the ring like he thinks he’s hot shit— or maybe like he’s worried someone will set his trousers on fire. Severa follows. This, she _has_ to see.  
  
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he says. “And what are we up to on this fine day?”  
  
“Hello, Inigo,” Lucina replies, smiling in his direction. That stupid smile that lights up a room— Severa hates it. Absolutely _hates_ it. “Nothing, really. I just finished my stretches. Saria thinks they’re a good idea for me to stay in shape while my arm is recovering.”  
  
“An excellent idea,” Inigo agrees. “Brilliant as you are lovely then, aren’t we, miss?”  
  
Saria covers her mouth and laughs. She’s not looking at him but her ears are pointed in the direction of his voice. “Oh, well, I wouldn’t know,” she admits. “But thank you. You’re sweet.”  
  
A start. Either she has the lowest standards of any woman Severa has ever met, or she’s deliberately fucking with him. Lucina looks at her in confusion, but that’s not strange. Lucina has an uncanny inability to determine when she’s being fucked with.  
  
Inigo flushes. “Ah— quite,” he manages, somehow not sounding like a complete idiot. Nice save, Severa thinks. He slides onto the bench next to her. She follows, somehow able to tell where he is. “I don’t believe we’ve met officially— My full name is Inigo Wolfe, from House Wolfe of the proud northern reaches of Ferox, but my friends call me Inigo, simply Inigo.”  
  
“Quite the title,” she teases. “Well then, Inigo, simply Inigo—“ she purrs that part, tucking her hair behind her ear in a gesture that is deliberately flirtatious and deliberately coy, and leans his direction. “I’m Saria. Saria Avani vir Goetia, if we’re sharing full names.”  
  
“What a beautiful name,” he says, because that’s one of his stock lines that he stole from a self-help book. “A pleasure to meet you, Saria Ava-knee veer Goaty.”  
  
Severa snorts. “Oh my _gods_ , you’re saying her name wrong,” she snickers. Inigo’s ears turn red.  
  
“Ah, forgive me,” he says quickly. “I’ll— er— I’m sure I’ll get it right next time. A name such as yours is simply too unique and beautiful for my foreign tongue to handle.” He’s really laying it on thick. Severa wants to laugh and vomit at the same time, which doesn’t sound pleasant at all so she does neither.  
  
“Oh, you’re just _adorable_ ,” Saria laughs. She reaches out and pats his cheek. “Isn’t he cute, Lucina?”  
  
Lucina looks and feels very uncomfortable. “I mean,” she admits. “If you say so.”  
  
“Well, most women tend to use words such as _handsome_ and _suave_ to describe me,” Inigo stammers. “Though, ah— my lady, if it pleases you, I am cute.”  
  
Saria musses his hair. It is then Inigo realizes that Saria was messing with him, and he deflates. Severa snorts again. Shot down without even a chance— as she expected. Saria seems too classy to get suckered by a cute boy saying pretty things. She’s not royalty, but she definitely comes from more privilege than even Lucina, an actual princess, has seen in the past few years. She holds herself with a kind of easy grace that happens when you’re used to getting what you want as long as you behave, and when you’re used to having a warm place to sleep and three good, big meals a day. She’s educated, graceful, obviously very beautiful, and otherwise everything Severa isn’t. Severa feels something inside her crumble.  
  
“So, ah,” Lucina interrupts, standing up. “Not that I’m unhappy to see the two of you, but did you want to use the ring? Saria and I were about to move on anyway, after I got changed.”  
  
“No, no, actually,” Severa insists, bouncing closer to Lucina. “I just came to see what you were up to. You know, I feel like we haven’t really talked in— you know, in _ages_.”  
  
“We talked yesterday,” Lucina says. Severa flushes.  
  
“ _Ages_ ,” she insists, laughing it off. “You know? But! But now that I’m here, I want a chance to meet Saria, too— you know, it was all so sudden, I didn’t really get to, either. So, hi.” She moves herself to where Saria is sitting. “I’m Severa.”  
  
(Saria can see the venom in her words; caustic pink that she’s trying not to spit. Saria doesn’t know what she did to get Severa’s ire, but it’s there.)  
  
“It’s good to meet you,” Saria says. “I’m glad I’m getting to know everyone here— you’ve quite the cast of characters as friends, Lucina.”  
  
Lucina shrugs and grins. “They’re a bit… they’re all a bit odd,” she admits. “They argue, fuss, and mock each other relentlessly, and I wouldn’t trade them in for anything in the world.”  
  
It’s somehow the sweetest thing Severa has ever heard. She feels something in her gut go _zing, time for your daily reminder that you would die for Lucina because you’re incredibly, relentlessly, unstoppably gay._ She feels herself flush.  
  
“A-anyway,” Severa decides. “Yeah, you should meet some of the other crazies we’ve got here— I mean, you’ve got Noire’s Miss Personality thing, Owain and Cynthia’s Imagination Station, Kjelle’s one-woman Amazon Brigade, Teddy mothering the crap out of everyone like a fussy brooding hen, the four shapeshifters, the wannabe Casanova, the mad scientist, the masked homosexual, the world’s scariest nurse, and the future Exalt trying to hold it all together— and me, of course. _Probably_ the best part of this shitshow.” She tosses her hair for good measure because gods, if she hasn’t fucked it all up by talking that much, she definitely will.  
  
Lucina has ducked out of the room to get changed. It’s then Severa begins to _really_ regret what she said— Saria looks like she only understood about half of that, and she has her eyebrows furrowed. Great, _now_ Severa’s done it. She looks back to Inigo for support but he’s gone, so it’s just her and Saria in the training ring.  
  
“So, Peaches,” Severa says, charging onwards. “Let’s talk about _you_.”  
  
“Let’s not and say we did,” Saria mumbles.  
  
Severa waves a hand and scoots closer, leaning on her arms on the bench. Saria fidgets with the slightly-long hem of her dress that belonged to Exalt Lissa once. It’s wool and it’s a faded yellow floral print, frayed at the hem and patched at the elbows with newer fabric that doesn’t quite match, and it’s trimmed with lace that has long since lost its crispness. Yellow isn’t her color— and the floral print? _Gods_ , no. Severa made a promise to herself that no matter what their relationship was by the time all this was over and they’d built society again, she was going to take Saria to a tailor and get an actual outfit made that suited her. Severa didn't care if she was blind. Nobody else around was, and none of them deserved to see gross yellow floral on one it definitely did not suit.  
  
“Aw, don’t be like that,” Severa insists. “I’m curious! It’s not every day that Blue brings someone new home. Now, what’s your story?”  
  
Saria shrugs. “What’s yours?”  
  
“You want to talk about me? I’m flattered.” Severa presses a hand to her heart in insincere gratitude. “And prone to extravagant lies. Let’s see— old mom and dad never wanted me, so I raised myself in the city back alleyways, picking pockets and stealing from shopkeepers to survive. I got arrested for grand theft when I was six.” It’s believable until she speaks again. “And I did it. It was all me. They were going to execute me, you know. But because I was too short for the execution block, they sent me to the dungeon with the worst of the worst criminals in Ylisse— murderers, kidnappers, gamblers, frauds, the works. I spent three years in that dark, dirty place, making wagon wheels with the other convicts. But when I was nine and they were leading me up to the block, the princess of Ylisse shot the executor in the eye and said, _'By order of the Exalt, I want that girl for my army!’”_  
  
Saria snorts. “A nice story, but something tells me you’re here because your parents are dead, just like everybody else.”  
  
“You asked for a story, not the truth,” Severa replies. “Your turn.”  
  
Saria pushes her short hair off her neck. She hums. “What do you want to hear, that I had Peanut at eleven through no choice of my own and murdered the perpetrator with a knife I made from sewing-room pins, and I've been on the run from the Plegian authorities ever since?"  
  
“Mm, decent,” Severa admits. “Add in something about protecting your honor or redeeming yourself for the horrible atrocities you’ve committed. Every good story needs atrocities.”  
  
Saria shakes her head. “This is stupid.”  
  
“It’s storytelling,” Severa insists. “Don’t feel down. With some practice, you’ll be as good at it as I am.”  
  
“I’m sure,” Saria says dryly.  
  
Lucina comes back into the ring then. She sits on the bench to tighten the laces on her shoes, her thick quilted coat on her lap and her favorite red scarf dangling around her neck over her sweater. She’s not wearing her gloves again— or maybe there’s no need, because nobody is going outside.  
  
“Oh, Severa, you’re still here,” Lucina notices. She smiles, like this is a fantastic thing. “Great! Why don’t we all walk back to the common area together? Unless you wanted to practice, Severa.”  
  
“No, I just—“ Severa internally curses herself— “Wanted to see what you were up to, or whatever. Making sure you didn’t— didn’t do something stupid again a-and make me worry!”  
  
Lucina chuckles. “That’s nice of you, but you know I can handle myself. It’s good to see you and Saria are getting along, though."  
  
“Definitely, definitely,” Severa nods rapidly. “We’re _totally_ besties, right, Peaches?”  
  
Saria frowns. “Sure, I guess,” she shrugs. “It’s good to, you know, meet people. Especially since I’m going to be spending the forseeable future here.”  
  
But Lucina beams. “That’s very good, then! Oh, Saria— if anybody bothers you, let me know, alright?”  
  
Saria’s ears turn red. “Sure,” she says, in the way that says she absolutely will _not_ let Lucina know because she’s the type of person who bottles up her problems.  
  
“Oh—“ Lucina seems to remember something. She takes her coat and puts it over Saria’s shoulders. “Here. I know you won’t need to be walking to the infirmary today, but it’s still chilly in the corridors.” Saria blushes and tugs it further over her shoulders, pushing her arms through the sleeves. It’s too big for her but it’s also too big for Lucina because her aunt gave it to her with the intention that she’ll wear it until she’s done growing. Severa wants to vomit.  
  
“You don’t need to do that,” Saria says.  
  
“I _want_ to,” Lucina replies. “You said you’re not used to the cold. I’d feel bad if I kept my coat when you were cold, even if it’s not a long walk.”  
  
“If it’s not a long walk, then I’ll be fine,” Saria insists. “You and your chivalry.”  
  
Severa clears her throat. “You _do_ realize I’m still here, right?” She doesn’t bother masking her disgust.  
  
Lucina laughs— that stupid, stupid laugh that makes something in Severa’s chest flutter. “Ah, sorry,” she says. “Were you cold, too? Because you can have my sweater—“  
  
“I don’t _want_ your stupid sweater!” Severa hisses. “Gods! Do you want to freeze to death?”  
  
Lucina blinks. “I just thought—“  
  
And Severa sighs. “Ugh, _whatever_. It doesn’t matter anyway. Let’s just go.”  
  
And go they do. Lucina walks ahead, without a care in the world, thinking everything is _great_ and _fine_ and _dandy_ and not even noticing Severa glaring in open contempt in Saria’s direction. Severa knows that envy does not suit her, but Severa is pretty sure it’s just the way things are at this point. She doesn’t want to be that type of person but here she is, hating somebody for no good reason at all because apparently she’s not good enough for the person she likes. Severa would like to be a kind person who forgives, but forgiveness is for people with self-esteem and Severa probably doesn’t have any of that. She goes back to drawing when they get back to the common area and she can see Saria sitting in front of the burning fireplace with that one really little kid that Severa has seen around, the one that babbles in both Common and Plegian and is basically impossible for anybody but Saria to understand. Lucina pulls Nah’s book from the nest of quilts on the couch she’s in, fallen asleep on Ke’tu’s shoulder, and tucks the top blanket further up under her chin. It’s quiet. It’s kind of nice.  
  
Until Laurent breaks the door down, that is.  
  
Which is perhaps more dramatic than what actually happens— He _does_ enter suddenly, papers from his journal fluttering behind him, that stupid brown sweater he always wears even slouchier than usual, stained over-robe undone and falling off of one shoulder. His glasses are bent out of shape and his hair is even messier than usual, sticking in all directions like a feather duster instead of lying down in tangles true to his ‘Mophead’ nickname. There’s a stack of books in his arm and ink stains on his twitching hands.  
  
“I know how to fix the world,” he announces. Where had been companionable quiet now is complete stunned silence. Laurent tugs at his lopsided collar, face flushing. He clears his throat.  
  
It’s Lucina who responds first. “I’m listening,” she says.  
  
He breathes. He dumps his books on a table and picks up scattered pages of his journal. It doesn’t sound like he’s joking, but Laurent never jokes. “I believe I’ve theorized how to apply the concept of rescue staves into working in the fourth dimension,” he says. “With enough magical power and an anchor point between timelines, we could send ourselves back in time— to before all this began. So we could stop it before it did.”  
  
Lucina’s eyes flash. Others start to clamor that _it’s crazy, it’ll never work_ — even the Manaketes on the couch wake up in the confusion and even Severa wants to say he’s dreaming, but she knows the look in Lucina’s eyes means she sees what’s going to happen.  
  
“Tell me more,” she says, in that voice that makes everyone else shut up. And they do shut up, and Laurent blinks in surprise. Time travel is a bit far-fetched, after all, but if it’s that or fight every damned person that’s ever died, then maybe it’s worth looking into. So he gathers his papers and starts to explain.

**Author's Note:**

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